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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.

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rex-rambles · 11 days ago

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➤ SINNERS | F1 TEXTS

pairings: charles leclerc, lando norris, lewis hamilton, oscar piastri, carlos sainz, and max verstappen

summary: you've got a new film coming out, and while the f1 grid is more than happy to support you, they're in for a surprise when they watch a certain scene (inspired by that one scene in sinners, you know what I'm talking about)

warnings: suggestive!! pretty heavy allusions to smut, but nothing explicit

➤ MASTERLIST

a/n: i have written wayyyy too much angst lately so i wanted something hot 🫶 enjoy

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landoughnut · 2 months ago

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My Protector

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - charles leclerc x fem!reader

♡ summary - charles won't allow people to speak poorly of his girlfriend, and neither will the other drivers

♡ warnings - protective bf charles, protective platonic grid, rude journalists

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.6k | girl dinnerrrr

The Monaco paddock was always chaotic, but today felt different. You could feel the tension in the air as you walked past the Ferrari garage, hearing snippets of whispered conversations and catching sideways glances from the media personnel.

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel that usually brought you comfort now seemed to mix with something more toxic – speculation and judgment.

"...just a distraction..." "...PR stunt..." "...affecting his performance..." "...can't focus with her around..."

Your stomach twisted. The headlines had started appearing after Charles' podium in Barcelona last weekend. What should have been a moment of celebration had turned into a big thing of speculation, with certain journalists suggesting your relationship was the reason he hadn't secured pole position instead of just a podium.

The fact that the Ferrari's pace genuinely hadn't been there for pole seemed irrelevant to them. You'd seen the social media posts, the opinion pieces, the "expert" analyses of how Charles' racing line had changed since you entered his life – as if your presence somehow affected the physics of his car.

You adjusted your Ferrari team pass, a movement that had become almost nervous lately. Eight months into your relationship with Charles, and this was the first time you'd faced such intense scrutiny. Sure, there had always been paparazzi photos and social media speculation, but this felt different – more personal, more accusatory.

You thought back to the previous night, how Charles had held you close in his apartment, promising that it would all blow over soon.

"They're just looking for stories," he'd said, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. "They do this every season. Remember when they said Fernando was too old? Or when they claimed Max had lost his edge after settling down? It's all nonsense."

But standing here now, under the weight of dozens of judgmental stares, his words felt distant. You clutched your coffee cup tighter, the warmth seeping into your palms providing little comfort.

The same coffee shop where you and Charles had first met – where he'd literally crashed into your life, sending your original drink flying all over your favorite shirt. The memory usually made you smile, but today it felt like ammunition for those claiming your relationship was somehow created by PR teams.

You were about to duck into the Ferrari hospitality area when a microphone was thrust in your face. The reporter – one you recognized from a particularly nasty article last week – wore an expression of barely concealed hostility. Behind her, several other journalists gathered like sharks sensing blood in the water.

"Is it true that Ferrari PR orchestrated your relationship with Charles Leclerc to improve his public image after his difficult 2024 season?" The reporter's voice was sharp, accusatory. "Sources suggest the timing was very convenient. And what do you say to fans who believe you're compromising his focus on the championship?"

Your heart pounded. The memory of your first real meeting with Charles flashed through your mind – how he'd accidentally spilled coffee on you in that little Monaco café, how he'd insisted on buying you a new shirt, how you'd ended up talking for hours about everything except Formula 1.

How he'd been so nervous asking for your number that he'd nearly knocked over a second coffee. How your first date had been at a tiny restaurant far from the glamorous spots he usually frequented, because he wanted somewhere quiet where you could really talk. Nothing about it had been orchestrated or planned.

Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air like a knife.

"That's enough." Charles' tone was ice-cold, nothing like the warm, playful voice you were used to. He stepped between you and the reporter, his usually gentle features set in hard lines. "You can question my driving. You can criticize my strategy calls. But you do not get to fabricate stories about my personal life or harass the woman I love."

The reporter stumbled back, but pressed on. "But Mr. Leclerc, your qualifying performances since beginning this relationship—"

"Have nothing to do with his relationship," Max Verstappen's Dutch accent interrupted as he appeared beside Charles. The Red Bull driver crossed his arms, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Maybe focus on the actual racing instead of making up stories? Charles has been driving better than ever – or did you miss the battle we had in Barcelona? Because I certainly haven't forgotten how hard he made me work for that win."

"The media's treatment of partners in this paddock has always been disgraceful," Lewis Hamilton added, joining the growing circle of drivers. His voice carried the weight of experience, of having seen this pattern repeat too many times. "We're here to race, but we're also human beings with real relationships. This needs to stop. The constant scrutiny of our personal lives, the baseless accusations – it's not journalism, it's harassment. I've seen too many relationships strained or broken because of this kind of pressure, and it's unacceptable."

Charles' hand found yours, squeezing gently. The gesture said everything words couldn't – I'm here, I've got you, we're in this together. You squeezed back, drawing strength from his presence, from the familiar calluses on his palm, from the subtle way his thumb stroked your skin.

"For the record," Charles addressed the now-silent group of journalists, his voice carrying the quiet authority he rarely showed outside of the cockpit, "my relationship is not up for discussion. My performance this season? Six podiums, two wins. If that's what you call being 'distracted,' then maybe I should have been distracted years ago."

His accent grew slightly stronger with emotion, something that only happened when he was truly passionate about what he was saying. "And since you're so interested in timing, let me tell you about timing. The timing of meeting someone who makes you want to be better, who supports you through the hard days, who understands the pressure and still loves you anyway – that's not something any PR team could orchestrate."

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. Even Lando Norris, who was passing by, couldn't help but grin.

"Mate, if anything, she's made you faster," Lando called out. "Remember when you were single and finished P4 in Saudi? Dark times, dark times indeed. Besides, have you seen them together? If that's PR, then I need to fire my entire media team."

You couldn't help but smile as the tension broke. Charles turned to you, his green eyes soft again, the protective anger melting into that familiar warmth that made your heart skip. A strand of his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and this time, you didn't resist the urge to brush it back. His eyes darkened slightly at your touch, and before you could process what was happening, he pulled you close.

The kiss wasn't planned or polished for the cameras. It was real and a little messy and perfect – the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't. His hands cradled your face with the same precision he used on the steering wheel, but so much more tender.

You could feel his heart racing against your palm where it rested on his chest, could taste the mint from his morning coffee, could hear the surprised murmurs and camera clicks around you. But none of it mattered, because Charles was kissing you like you were the finish line he'd been racing toward all his life.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours. "Je t'aime," he murmured, just for you. "Let's get some coffee before practice? There's that little place around the corner... unless you're worried I'll spill it on you again?" His playful smile was back, the one that had made you fall for him in the first place.

As you walked away, his arm protectively around your waist, you could hear Carlos Sainz expertly deflecting the remaining reporters with his characteristic charm. "My teammate's relationship? Why don't we talk about the new upgrades instead? They're much more interesting, I promise you. Or we could discuss how Charles has actually improved his tire management this year – which, by the way, happened after he met her, so maybe we should be thanking her?"

The paddock might be a pressure cooker of speculation and drama, but in moments like these, it felt more like a family – one that protected its own. Even Pierre Gasly, passing by with his race engineer, gave you a supportive nod. "They're just jealous," he said loud enough for the lingering journalists to hear. "Charles is driving better than ever, and they can't stand that their narrative doesn't fit."

Later that afternoon, you watched from the Ferrari garage as Charles attacked the Monaco streets with precision and passion. Each sector time flashed green, then purple. The garage held its collective breath as he crossed the line for his final qualifying lap.

"Pole position, pole position!" his race engineer's voice crackled over the radio. "P1, Charles, P1! Absolutely magnificent lap!"

In parc fermé, he pulled you into another kiss, this one full of adrenaline and joy and full of love. His race suit was damp with champagne from the celebrations, but you didn't care. This was your Charles – not the media's version, not the speculation's target, but the man who had stolen your heart in that coffee shop and continued to amaze you every day.

"See?" he whispered in your ear, still holding you close. "You're not a distraction. You're my strength. My lucky charm. My everything."

The next day's headlines would focus on his blistering lap time, his masterful sector three, his perfect strategy. The negative articles seemed to vanish in the face of his success, though you knew they might return. But it didn't matter anymore – not when you had Charles, not when you had the support of the entire paddock family.

And if anyone still thought you were a distraction, well, the trophy sitting in Charles' Monaco apartment would beg to differ.

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leclerc-hs · 23 days ago

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off the record! - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x race engineer!reader (fem) summary: in which you and charles don't correct the headlines OR you and charles are fake dating...key word: FAKE...right? warnings: language, some smut, NOT PROOFREAD (there's prob typos sorry), angst??? word count: 9.1k author's note: hiiii angels! I hope you like this one <3 let me know what y'all think!! hearing from you all is what gives me motivation to keep writing. xoxo. HAD THIS ONE SITTING IN THE DRAFTS FOR SOME TIME

Charles is good at pretending. Almost too good.

He’s too swift in front of the cameras, too convincing when his hand always manages to find the small of your back as you both walk through the paddock like it’s second nature. Like you belong there, belong to him. Too natural in the way he leans toward you in interviews, voice low and warm, muttering things that sound and look intimate even when they aren’t.

Except sometimes, when it doesn’t feel like pretending.

Because no one’s watching when it’s just the two of you in the garage after hours, both of you bleary eyed and sore from leaning hunched over the data too long. He’s still like that. Still standing too close. Still reaching for your wrist when you ramble off, his thumb brushing over your pulse like its nothing. Or when he still calls you amour and cherie in that voice, like he doesn’t remember that it’s all fake.

And you let him. You always do.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth. That you’ve started memorizing the sound of his laugh. Or the shape of the vein in his throat when he’s super focused. That your stomach twists into knots whenever his eyes crinkle from a smile that feellike its just for you. That you’ve memorized the shape of his mouth when he says your name, whether it’s joyful, annoyed, or exhausted, it’s always gentle. Like he cares. Like he means everything.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Not the way he touches you when people are watching. Not the photos or the constant headlines.

It’s the way he looks at you when no one else is around.

Like it’s not pretend at all.

It starts in the most ridiculous way.

One stupid photo, taken from the wrong angle at the wrong moment, and suddenly you’re everywhere.

LECLERC’S SECRET FLING???? MYSTERY WOMAN OR HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT?

You outright groan when you see it. You’re still in the motorhome, alone with the hum of the mini refrigerator behind you and the harsh morning sun streaming through the tinted windows. Your laptop is wide open, untouched, but all you can do is stare at your phone.

Your face is angled slightly toward him. His head tipped just enough to suggest something intimate briefly between FP1 and a strategy meeting, your hand grazing the curve of his back as you both maneuvered through the crowd. He laughed at something you said, probably something dumb, but the photo caught that too. His mouth curved upward, eyes crinkled in your direction. Like something romantic, private, real.

Your stomach churns.

A knock sounds, soft and almost polite, before the door opens anyways. You don’t have to look up to know its him. His scent hits you first. Clean, something warm and familiar that always lingers too long.

“Did you see the news?” Charles asks, closing the motorhome door with a soft click.

You turn the phone screen toward him, “What do you think?”

He glances at the screen for a mere second and huffs out a soft laugh. Not surprised, not even irritated. Just amused, like this is a game.

“Didn’t know you were considered a mystery woman. Let alone my mystery woman,” he says, stepping closer, a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Didn’t know I needed PR clearance to walk beside you,” you reply, brows raised. Your voice is sharp, not in the mood to be flirted with, even if its playful.

His smile dims, just a fraction. “I know it’s annoying.”

“It’s beyond annoying,” you drop the phone beside you. “They don’t even bother to use my name! Just ‘female engineer from inside Ferrari’. Like I’m nothing.”

His gaze softens while he leans against the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he sighs, “They’ll get bored anyways.”

“Will they?” You meet his eyes. “Or are they going to spin this until I’m some mystery girlfriend hiding in plain sight?”

Neither of you speak for a few moments.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, not looking at you as he says, “They’re going to write the story either way. Maybe it’s better if we control the narrative.”

You lean back, studying him. “Control?”

Charles finally looks up, and when he does, its with that expression he only wears when he’s working through something dangerous. That soft stillness thats half strategy, half vulnerability.

“They think we’re together already,” he says. “What if we just…let them?”

The silence stretches and you just a stare at him, waiting for the joke, the amused smirk, the cocky laugh. But it doesn’t come.

Because he’s serious.

“You want to fake date me,” You say flatly.

“I want to stop giving them something to chase,” He corrects you, his voice almost a whisper. “If they think we’re together, they might back off.”

You begin to shake your head slowly. “That’s insane.”

He exhales through his nose, not denying it. “Think about it. A few appearances, some hand holding. A smile or two when cameras are around. No one gets hurt.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right…no one.”

He stands then, crosses the room and leans against the counter next to you, too close like he always is. His gaze skims your face.

“You wouldn’t have to change anything,” his voice is soft. “You’re already next to me most weekends. You’re already in photos. You already…” He pauses. Swallows. Breathes. “You already look at me like it could be true.”

Your heart drops. You open your mouth. Close it again.

He’s not joking. He’s asking.

And the worst part is, part of you wants to say yes.

You study him for a long moment. The way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks. The way his hair falls softly over his forehead, sweaty and messy.

“You’re really serious about this.”

He nods. “Only if you are.”

You reach for your phone again, staring at the photo, before putting it face down.

“When do we start?”

You feel him before you see him.

There’s a palpable shift in the air…familiar. And he’s there. Just standing outside the hospitality suite, dressed from head to toe in Ferrari red, with his sunglasses slipping on the bridge of his nose as he gives a small nod to someone you don’t recognize. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Regardless, your pulse spikes.

Your grip on the tablet in your hands tightens, a poor attempt at grounding yourself. You’ve walked beside him before. Done this dance dozens of times. But never with eyes on you like this. Never with your face wrapped up in headlines and edits that call you something you’re simply not.

Charles falls into step with you as if its the most casual thing in the world. As if the press haven’t been breathing down your necks. His scent hits you first, like always, clean and expensive and something so him that it unsettles something deep in between your ribs.

“Ready?” His voice is smooth, and he still isn’t looking at you.

You nod, forgetting that he isn’t looking at you before you mutter a soft I suppose in his direction.

The paddock is nothing but a storm of noise and motion by the time you step out. The sun is shining blindly, heat simmering off the asphalt while other workers buzz around between the garages. Photographers and fans hover like flies on a horses back.

Your heart is already fluttering in your throat, but you manage to keep your face composed. Neutral. As if there aren’t dozens of cameras fixed on you. Waiting.

His hand brushes against yours…barely. It seems like nothing at first, just the back of his hand brushing your fingers as you walk side by side.

But then it happens again. This time on purpose.

And then you feel it. His fingers curling, slipping through yours with a care that feels almost too fucking intimate.

You freeze. Not noticeably. Your steps don’t falter. But something inside you, burns.

The cameras go wild.

You hear it in the shouts, in the constant click click click as people realize what they’re witnessing. Voices shout from nearly every direction. Some screaming his name, others screaming yours. Your heart thuds like a drum behind your ribs.

And then, he stops.

Right there in the middle of the paddock, with the crowd pressing in, with reporters angling their mics and cameras, he fucking halts. His grip tightens around your hand, not painfully, but enough to make you stop walking too.

You turn, confused and startled. But he’s already facing you.

The sun glints off his sunglasses, casting shadows across his face, but its his stillness that steals your breath more than anything. His thumb brushes once, slow and grounding, along your hand as he speaks.

“You okay?” He asks, voice quiet and nearly lost in all the surrounding noise.

Your throat constricts. “I’m fine.” But it’s not convincing. Not to him at least.

He leans in slightly, and for a second, you think he might say something but instead his hand squeezes yours again, then slowly his fingers move. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your knuckles, the exact curve of your wrist, the shape of your hand against his.

And quickly, so quickly that no one but you could catch it, he tilts his head and lowers his sunglasses just enough for his eyes to peek over the top.

And that is what undoes you. Its not a look for show. His green eyes are dark and searching. He just looks at you like he’s reading his favorite book. Like he wants to consume every single written word of yours.

“You sure?” He says, like the answer actually matters.

You nod.

And within a millisecond his sunglasses slide back into place with one push of his fingers. Mask on again. But his hand never leaves yours.

And you start walking again. Casual, composed, fake.

You don’t even bother knocking. Just push the door open with your shoulder and shuffle in like it’s your room. Your shoes are already off before the door fully shuts, mumbling something about your spine being broken as you toss your team jacket over the back of a chair.

Charles doesn’t even look up. He’s on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re late,” He says, voice muffled by the few bites of pasta in his mouth.

“You’re alive,” You shoot back.

“Barely.”

You collapse beside him, shoulder knocking into his as you groan and sink into the carpet as if its the best thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah, well. Next time, try not to scare me half to death on lap 52,” You mutter, pulling your hair out of its pony and letting it fall. “I don’t need to explain to the FIA why I dropped dead.”

He chuckles. It’s low, tired, and warm.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You traumatize me daily.”

His head turns towards you, raising an eyebrow as he places his dish onto the ground. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it.”

“Do you want my pasta?” He pushes the bowl towards you like a peace offering.

You stare at it. “You’re so romantic.”

“Not romantic,” he softly smiles. “Just generous, cherie.”

“You’re luck you’re pretty.”

“You’re lucky I don’t care to fight right now.”

The room is dim, only one lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow across the room and his face. His hoodie’s rumpled, socks mismatched, and hair still damp from the shower he rushed through.

It’s stupid how at home he looks right now. Not the polished version. Just Charles, the boy who can’t sit still and lets you steal his hoodies whenever your room gets too cold.

“I’d let you win,” You shrug your shoulders.

His brows furrow slightly. “Win what?”

“A fight.”

His grin spreads slowly across his lips. “Oh, so you’re feeling soft tonight, hm?”

“Soft. Exhausted. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“I like you like this,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make your chest cave in.

“Like what? Emotionally unstable and half-asleep?”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile breaks through anyway.

You both fall into an easy silence.

Comfortable.

You’re sitting sideways in the too-small balcony chair, legs draped over one arm, glass of wine in hand, with your head tilted back as you laugh. Charles is sitting on the floor beside you, his socked foot nudging the edge of your chair every now and then like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“You were so fucking smug,” you say, pointing your glass at him. “And the audacity on lap 37?”

He smirks, leaning his head back agains the sliding glass door. “You were on the radio sounding like you were about to reach through the headset and strangle me.”

“I was! You kept ignoring the delta!”

“I did not-“

“You definitely did! You lifted once in turn ten and then just fucking sent it.”

He’s laughing now. Its full bodied and messy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And in this moment you decide, you love this laugh. This laugh is yours.

“Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Maybe I did ignore. Just a little.”

“So I was right?”

He takes a long sip of his drink, eyes on yours over the rim of his glass. “Don’t push it.”

You nudge him with your foot. “I’m always right.”

“You’re always loud,” he counters. “I’ve never met someone who could make an entire briefing feel like a personal attack.”

“I’m passionate.”

“You’re terrifying.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he’s still looking at you like there’s something about this moment that he wants to memorize.

The room is dark except for the flickering light from the TV, the sound low enough that you have to lean in to catch some of the lines, not that either of you really care.

The rain outside has been tapping against the windows since dinner, soft and steady, with the curtains half-drawn. It smells like shampoo and hotel linen and the candy bar you split earlier, the wrapper still crumpled on top of the nightstand, forgotten beside two water bottles and a single sock that might be his or might be yours.

Your lying on your stomach, head propped up on a pillow, legs bent at the knees with your feet swaying as you scroll through the Netflix menu for, what feels like, the seventh time. Charles is stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lying between you, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket like he’s unsure if he wants to move them closer.

“Pick something,” he groans, his voice thick with tiredness. “You’ve been scrolling for ten years.”

“I’m feeling out the vibe,” you reply. “You don’t understand.”

“You picked Spaceballs last time.”

“And you loved it.”

He groans, dragging a pillow over his face. You laugh, loud and bright, and Charles turns just enough to look at you. The screen casts you in soft light.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second too long. And then like it’s normal, he reaches for the back of your shirt and tugs it down where the fabric has ridden up, his knuckles grazing warm skin as he smooths it into place.

“You’re always doing that,” You mumble, slightly dazed.

He doesn’t deny it.

“It just bugs me when you’re not covered,” he says, almost to himself only.

You want to tease him, want to say something clever, but the way he says it makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not ready to think about.

So instead, you settle on a movie. Some stupid, forgettable rom-com, and throw the remote between you with a sigh.

At some point, maybe around the third scene of the movie, you shift. Not deliberately.

Just a slow, natural thing. One of those absentminded movements made out of comfort and sheer exhaustion. You start leaning into him, just slightly. Your head dipping forward, shoulder brushing against his arm, and your elbow resting a little closer to his ribcage than it was twenty minutes ago. You don’t even realize it at first. It just happens.

Charles, on his end, doesn’t move away.

He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t tense. Instead, he shifts too.

It’s not much. The way his body tilts just slightly toward yours. The way his hand, once resting flat agains the mattress, curls upwards so that the back of it now brushes against the edge of your waist whenever you breathe.

You shift again, slower this time, letting your cheek rest against the slope of his shoulder, his cotton hoodie soft beneath your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something warm. Something you’ve begun to associate with home.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

You both just let it happen.

It starts with a spoonful of cereal to the face.

Not yours. His.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed in a hoodie that’s definitely not yours (it’s his and he’s already made a hoke about it), one hand deep in a box of granola, the other scrolling on your phone, when Charles makes the mistake of saying something smug about your snoring.

“I don’t snore,” You say almost immediately, without looking up.

“Oh, yes you do,” he counters from where he’s standing near the little counter, pouring milk into a bowl. “You sound like a chainsaw.”

You blink at him.

Then, silently, reach for the complimentary spoon, dip it into your bowl of cereal, and flick it directly at his chest.

It splatters against the front of his t-shirt, clinging to the cotton.

He looks down and simply stares at the damage. Then up at you.

“You did not just-“

“I warned you!”

“You did not-“

And then its absolute chaos as he lunges.

You shriek, laughing, cereal long forgotten as you scramble to the far side of the bed, but he’s faster…years of sharp reflexes working unfairly in your favor as he reaches out and grabs your waist, tackling you into the pillows.

“No, Charles…Charles, please!”

“You did this to yourself!”

“Truce! Truce!”

“Too late.”

His hands are gentle, even as he’s tickling you. Even as you flail and laugh and grab at his wrists like you could stop him. Which you can’t, because his grip is ridiculously strong and the room is already echoing with your wheezing.

Eventually, he stops.

Maybe because he’s laughing too hard. Maybe cause he notices the way you’re curled beneath him, face flushed and eyes shining.

And for one very long moment, he goes still

You both do.

Both frozen. Smiling.

But it fades a little because suddenly there’s this change that feels heavier than it should. A shift in the air that neither of you meant to invite in, but it’s here, demanding.

He clears his throat and rolls off of you with a soft groan.

“You’re the worst person ever ever,” he says, falling onto the mattress beside you.

“You started it.”

He throws the nearest pillow at you. “You cereal bombed me.”

“You deserved it.”

Another moment of silence passes.

Then casually, almost too casually, he says, “You can keep the hoodie, by the way.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Looks better on you.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you.

No. He’s just lying there, arms folded behind his head, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he didn’t just light a very dangerous fire.

And you don’t say anything. You just tug the hoodie a little closer around you.

The paddock is mostly empty by the time you finish up. The sun is low, and you’re walking a few steps ahead of him on the track, laughing at something he said. Not the polite kind of laugh people give him in interviews. But a real, loud laugh.

That’s the first mistake.

Because Charles is watching you. Not in the casual, friendly way he always has, but really watching you. And for the first time since this whole thing started, something in his chest pulls.

You glance back at him, smiling. “What?”

He blinks once, caught. “Nothing,” He starts to shake his head, trying to shake off the feeling. “You’re just…in a good mood.”

You slow down so that you’re walking beside each other again. “What? I can’t be happy?”

“No, you can. You just…” He trails off, lost in his own thoughts, before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re just different today.”

You laugh, softer this time. “Maybe I like being your fake girlfriend.” You say it as a joke. It’s always a joke.

But Charles’s smile falters, just a fraction.

And that’s when it happens. Right there. That’s when he realizes he doesn’t want it to be fake.

You keep walking, your eyes scanning the track like you’re picturing tomorrow’s data in your head already. Charles tries…really, really tries, to slip back into that same rhythm. The one where you’re just his engineer, just his best friend, just the person he trusts most in the world as of lately.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because you’ve always been that person.

And now there’s a weight in his chest every time you smile at someone else, a hum under his skin every time you say his name, and suddenly your laugh isn’t just nice to hear. It’s necessary. Like a drug. A song he never wants to stop playing.

The breeze picks up a little, carrying the light scent of rubber, and a strand of your hair blows across your face, rubbing against your cheek. You tuck it back without thinking. The motion is small, but it somehow feels intimate. Stupidly intimate. Like something only someone in love would take notice of.

Charles swallows and looks away.

“You good?” You ask, noticing the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.

He nods, almost too quickly. “Yeah, just got a wave of exhaustion.”

You don’t press. You never do. You let him have his silences, even if they stretch too long, like right now.

You’re talking again, about strategy or the tires, but he’s not really listening anymore.

He’s thinking about your hands. The way you rested them on his chest during the last media stunt, your fingers spread flat over his heart like you didn’t know what you were touching.

He’s thinking about the fact he didn’t even flinch.

He’s thinking about how he liked it.

You say something funny and laugh, and Charles lets out one too. But it’s small, only half there.

Because it’s not funny anymore.

Because he’s beginning to look at you like he’s already lost you, and you don’t even know that he wants you yet.

And when you reach over to gently tug at his elbow, teasing him about being such a slow walker today, he knows it will only take one moment. One moment to fall completely, stupidly, in love with you.

And you’re just smiling like it’s all a game.

It’s late in the afternoon, just after FP2, and the air inside the motorhome has a tired kind of warmth. The kind of energy that once pulsed throughout the room has now dulled into a low murmur.

You’re curled into he corner of the bench, tablet in hand, thumb swiping purposely through the sector times that begin to blur because you’ve been staring at numbers all day. Your back aches, neck’s tight, and you’ve probably read the same stats of numbers three times while retaining none of it.

All while trying your best to not acknowledge Charles across from you.

Charles. Sitting relaxed, legs stretched out, legs lazily crossed over one another at his ankles. You don’t look at him, not directly at least. But you always feel him.

You can sense his movement more than you see it. The soft pull of gravity as he crosses the room with such ease that no one bothers to notice. His body finds its way beside you, his thighs pressing into yours, his shoulders against your arm.

You don’t look up because you don’t need to.

He leans in until you can feel the warmth of his breath at your temple, his faint scratch of stubble barely grazing your skin.

“What are you changing?” His voice curls its way into the space between your ear and your neck, and it settles there. Warm. Lingering.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, something that doesn’t sound like he’s unraveling you. “Playing around with the rear balance,” you say almost too quickly. “That first sector was a mess.”

He hums in agreement, half thoughtful, half amused. And he’s so close that it vibrates through you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t pretend this was just about data.

He stays close, too close, almost always. His body angled towards you, shoulders brushing against your arms, thighs pressed against yours with ease. Familiar. Like he knows exactly how far he can lean into you.

And then his hand rests on your thigh. It lands softly, just above your knee, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. His thumb brushes once. Barely.

Then again.

You don’t flinch. You don’t correct him. You don’t glance around to see if anyone notices because you don’t care.

It’s normal.

He hadn’t said much on the flight back. Hadn’t looked at anyone after the race either. Not to the media, not the engineers, and not even the fans who were leaning over the barricade chanting his name like he hadn’t lost the entire race from a single lock-up.

You watched him in the garage, helmet on too long, gloves clenched in his lap like he didn’t trust his hands to open.

You waited. You always did.

Now it’s past midnight and the hotel is silent. You’re half-asleep when you hear it. A soft knock, barely audible. You lie still, unsure if you’re imagining it.

Then again.

Three quiet knocks.

You pull yourself out of bed slowly, dragging the blanket around your shoulders, padding barefoot to the door with sleep covered eyes.

You peep through the hole before unlocking it.

Open it. And Charles is there. Barefoot.

Sweatpants and a hoodie thrown on like he couldn’t care less what he looked like. His eyes are tired. Not the good kind. The kind of tired that lives behind the eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And you don’t ask why he’s here.

You step back wordlessly and let him in, closing the door behind him as he moves past you like he’s on autopilot.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because the way he’s looking at you, his eyes heavy and rimmed with pain that he doesn’t let anyone else see, says everything.

He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s unsure if he should sit or speak or leave.

“I fucked it up,” he finally says, voice flat. “We had it all right. All of it. The pace, the tires. I fucking had-“ He stops mid sentence, his jaw locked so tight as if it hurts to talk.

“I saw,” Your voice is soft, soothing.

But he shakes his head once, harshly. “I don’t need you to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

His eyes flick up then. Guarded. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head.

You cross the room toward him slowly, barefoot, the hotel blanket still draped around you like a gown, and stop just in front of him. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, close enough to see the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Come here,” you whisper, barely louder than the rain outside.

He hesitates, for a mere second, but then he’s moving. Softly.

He steps into you and lets you fold your arms around him. Lets his forehead press into the skin of your shoulder, lets his hands settle on the dips of your waist that makes your chest ache, because for someone so fierce, Charles has always touched you like you’re something fragile.

You hold him.

You feel his breath against your neck, feel the way his body is barely trembling beneath your arms.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, your lips brushing the softness of his hair. “You can just be.”

He nods against your collarbone.

He just stays there, wrapped in your arms. You slide a hand into his hair, fingers combing through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. “You’re the only place I don’t have to be anything,” He says quietly. “Just me.”

And even though it makes your heart ache, you just nod.

“You never need to be anything else.” You whisper. “Not with me.”

And when you pull him toward the bed, when he lies down with his face partially hidden in the crook of your neck, neither of you speak. You both lay in the silence.

The mirror is fogged up.

You’ve both been back for less than five minutes, barely kicked off your shoes, and he’s already standing in the middle of the hotel bathroom with his shirt half off, brows furrowed, rotating his shoulder like he’s pretending it doesn’t ache.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say from the doorway.

He glances toward you. “What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

He exhales. Stubborn. And looks away.

“You’re a shit liar,” You mutter, brushing past him to grab the icy-hot gel from the counter. “You’ve been favoring your other side since the second stint.”

He shrugs, or tries to at least. Winces instead. “Didn’t want to talk about it.”

You roll your eyes, flicking the cap off and motioning for him to sit on the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

He does. He knows better than to argue with you…most of the time.

You lean over him and start working the gel into his shoulder with slow, careful fingers. You don’t even think about it. It’s not weird. It’s not intimate.

It’s Charles.

You’re draped in his hoodie. Oversized, soft from too many washes, sleeves falling over your hands, and your breath hitches as he leans forward so you can dig deeper into his muscle.

His skin is hot under your fingers. He groans quietly, head dropped forward, and you laugh.

“So dramatic.”

“It hurts,” he grumbles.

You press harder, just to make him squirm. And he does, a hiss through his teeth, and then he laughs.

Charles’s eyes are fixed on the floor.

You press your fingers into the tight knot just beside his collarbone, and it takes almost everything in him to not lean into you. Not to bury his face into your neck and tell you.

Tell you that your hands feel like home. Tell you that he can’t pretend anymore.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re just smiling at him like this is nothing.

Because when you finish, you wipe your hands against the nearby towel, and pat him gently on top of the head. “Good as new.”

You move past him, leaving the bathroom with a soft laugh. And he stays there. Seated. Motionless.

Hands gripping his knees like it’s the only thing keeping him from following you and pressing his mouth to yours.

The ballroom is gold. Actually gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold trim, light reflecting off champagne glasses and sequined gowns. The kind of place that exudes pretentious luxury. And you can’t help but think just how fucking ridiculous it all is.

You stand near the edge of the room, one hand curled loosely around a glass of wine, the other tucked into Charles’s arm.

You’re both surrounded by easy conversations and polite laughter. But none of it sticks. Because Charles can’t focus on any of it.

Not with you standing beside him like that. Not in that fucking dress.

He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard, but the minute you stepped out of that car, it was like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

You in black. Hair pinned up. Shoulders bare. A tiny sliver of skin exposed at the base of your spine whenever you turned.

You’re laughing at something some journalist is saying, not performative, just a soft amused laugh as you bring your wine glass up to your lips.

Charles shifts closer. Not for the cameras. Not for the sponsors. But because he wants to. Because he wants, no needs, to feel your body against his just for a second longer, to press his fingers lightly against your skin in a way that says you’re here, you’re mine, even if you don’t know it.

You don’t move or flinch, you just lean into him with that subtle softness you always do. Like your body knows his.

And that’s what kills him. The ease. The naturalness.

Because this, whatever this is, has bled into nearly everything. This has crept up beneath the edges of what was supposed to be a casual lie, and now he can’t tell where pretending ends and begins.

Still he watches as another man approaches.

Someone older. Wealthy. Someone who looks at you like you’re not already standing beside someone, like you’re available.

Charles sees the way the man’s eyes skim the lines of your body, the curve of your mouth. He watches the moment that man reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says something that makes you smile.

And in that exact moment, something sharp and awful coils low in his chest. Hot and unfair, and deeply fucking stupid.

Because he doesn’t have the right. Not actually, at least.

He’s allowed to touch you. Allowed to whisper in your ear. Allowed to look at you. But one thing he isn’t allowed to do, is want you like this.

He’d stepped away for barely fifteen minutes.

Just long enough to take a photo with some of the sponsors, shake hands, and exchange polite thank you’s.

And when he came back, you were laughing. Not at him. Not with him.

Charles’s steps falter as he spots you across the room, standing near one of the tall round tables tucked near the corner, your wine glass cradled in both hands, your smile warm.

And beside you, someone unfamiliar.

Someone tall, in a tailored navy suit, hair too perfectly styled, hand resting on the table like he owns the conversation. Charles watches, as this stranger leans in, says something low near your ear, and you tilt your head back and laugh. That real laugh. The one that makes your nose crinkle.

He feels his stomach twist.

He tries not to show it. Tries to keep walking. Because this isn’t supposed to matter. It’s all pretend.

He doesn’t get to be jealous.

But that doesn’t stop the voice in his head from seething when he watches the man’s eyes drop to your chest. When he see’s your smile linger just a little too long for his liking.

Charles can feel it in his chest. Tight and bitter.

And when the man reaches out, whether it was innocent or not, it doesn’t matter. Because Charles is already crossing the room.

He doesn’t rush. No, that would draw attention. But his steps are purposeful and the space between you and him disappears quickly.

You see him first.

“Hey,” you say, easy. “You remember-“

Charles cuts in smoothly. His voice even, just loud enough to interrupt, like he isn’t burning from the inside out. He doesn’t even look at the man standing next to you. Only looks at you.

“They’re asking for us,” he says. “Need more photos or something with the sponsors.”

It’s a lie. And you don’t even need to ask to know.

You can tell by the way he says it. It slips from his mouth like a reflex. Like he didn’t need to think twice before pulling you away from someone else.

But it’s Charles. And you trust him.

So you nod. “Okay. Just give me a sec-”

You don’t even finish the sentence before his hand is at your back, firm and warm. Possessive.

There’s a pressure to his touch that makes your spine straighten, makes the uncovered skin his fingers graze buzz. Like he’s reminding you, and anyone else watching, that this is his right.

He walks beside you, closer than normal, not speaking as he steers you away from the man.

You glance back over your shoulder, offering an apologetic smile to the man, but it wavers, just slightly, when you feel Charles’s hand tighten.

Not hard. Just enough. Enough to say don’t.

The twist in your chest is unexpected. And when you’re both finally out of an earshot, you nudge him lightly with your elbow.

“Really?” You say, eyes meeting his. “Photos?”

You try to sound amused. Like it’s all some joke. Like nothing has changed.

But he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he keeps walking. And you can’t help but notice just how tight his jaw is clenched. And when he finally glances back down at you, you forget how to breathe for a second.

Because there’s something in his gaze that doesn’t belong to the version of Charles you normally know.

It’s too real. Too unguarded.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” His voice quiet.

You blink, lips parting. “Charles…”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest moment before he meets your eyes again. “I know I’m not supposed to care. I know what this is.”

He sighs, slow and quiet, as his fingers flex against your back.

“But you’re mine tonight,” He says.

And he doesn’t ask.

He’s warning. And that’s when you notice it for the first time. But you bottle it up, lock it tight, and push it into that imaginary little box of yours.

Because there is no way.

You’re sitting, more like slouching, on the bed in your gown, a half-empty bottle of champagne bottle still loosely gripped in your hand. Charles is slouched in the armchair across from you, suit jacket thrown somewhere in the room, white shirt rumpled, top buttons undone. His bowtie is still hanging around his neck…loose, forgotten.

The two of you are flushed. Fuzzy. Not wasted, but tipsy.

Tipsy enough to remember.

Drunk enough to stop pretending.

He gets up slowly, walking over to you with such ease, before dropping down beside you on the bed.

“You’re quiet,” he mutters, his voice edged by too much champagne and restraint.

You glance down at the bottle in your hand, then back up at him, giving him a faint smile. “So are you.”

He lets out a small laugh, almost a huff, “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, “Like what?”

His eyes fall to your mouth, linger, then look back at your eyes. “Like kiss you.”

The room tilts, just a little bit. You set the bottle down on the bedside table without taking your eyes off of him, fingers trembling slightly.

And then, you reach for him. Instinctively.

You allow your fingers to curve into the loose knot of his bowtie still hanging on his neck, tugging it as you tilt your chin up. And when your eyes flicker to his again, you whisper, “Then don’t try so hard.”

And he kisses you like the fight is finally over.

His mouth crashes into yours like you’ve both run out of time to lie. It’s heat…pure, consuming, and real.

The kiss is deeper, messier, his lips hungry against yours, your bodies moving in an unspoken urgency from holding back too long.

His hands are everywhere, dragging along your waist, the back of your neck, your ribs, your spine, tugging you closer at any given moment.

You gasp when he pushes you flat to the mattress, hovering over you as he kisses down your throat, tongue flicking against the skin right below your jaw. His teeth dragging like he knows it will make you shiver. And it does.

“Tell me you want this,” His lips brush against your collarbone. “That you want me.”

“I want this. I want you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing the zipper of your dress with shaky fingers, his breath catching as more of your skin is revealed beneath the palm of his hands.

Your bra is gone before you even realize he’s unclasped the back of it, and when his mouth meets your nipple, tongue slow, you arch into him with a soft cry that turns his green eyes, black.

He’s on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher around his waist, the other guiding himself to your slick cunt, shuddering against your folds.

And when he finally presses into you, thick and slow, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back and moan, you swear you never want to stop this from happening again.

“Christ,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours, trying to feel all of you. “Feel so good.”

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. “Then fuck me.”

And he does.

Harsh, deep, rhythmic thrusts that make the headboard creak and your breath escape in desperate, broken moans against his mouth. His pace is steady, hips snapping harder whenever your moans start to rise, when your nails claw into his back, when your thighs shake around him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s more hunger, more like need. He kisses you like he can’t stand not being inside of you in every way.

“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he groans. “Driving me insane.”

You whimper against him, tightening your arms against his neck. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

His pace doesn’t falter. His forehead presses to yours. “You’re all I think about,” he pants. “Every fucking night.”

You’re both close. And he knows it, because his mouth finds yours again in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. More claiming than comfort.

And when you come, crying his name out like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, he follows. His hips pounding as he groans into your shoulder, holding you so tightly like you’ll disappear if he didn’t.

You’re still in your headset, arms crossed tight over tour chest as Charles climbs out of the car, pulling off his gloves with that sharp, frustrated energy that always festers under his skin when things aren’t working out the way he wants them to.

He tosses the gloves onto the seat, runs a hand through his hair, damp with swear, and gives you a look thats more of a challenge than a greeting.

You glance down at your tablet, even though you’ve looked at the data a dozen times.

“I told you to take more margin in turn six,” you say, voice calm but tight.

Charles laughs. It’s low, humorless, and bitter. “You think I don’t know how to drive my own car?”

You lift your eyes slowly, and the look you give him is sharp. “I think you’re letting your ego get in the way of your brain. Again.”

His jaw tightens and he takes a step closer. Like he wants to rattle your bones.

“You want to talk about my ego?” He asks, words laced with a dangerous edge. “You’ve been walking around like nothing happened. Like I didn’t have my tongue on your skin a few nights ago, like I wasn’t buried deep inside of you while you whispered my name like it meant something. Like I mean something.”

You inhale sharply but don’t flinch. This can’t happen here. Not in the garage.

“And you’ve been walking around like it didn’t mean something.”

He pulls off the top half of his suit, tying it around his waist in jerky, clearly annoyed movements.

“You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice hoarse now. “Fine. But don’t stand here and act like I’m the only one who did this.”

You blink.

“I can’t afford to lose you.” You whisper.

And he gets it. And he hates it. Because he knows you’re right.

“Yeah,” his voice is a low whisper. “I know.”

The lights are hot.

Not warm. Not pleasant. Hot. In the way that makes your skin feel too tight and causes your eyes to ache from squinting under the glare.

You’re standing on your mark, back straight, hands at your sides.

Charles is standing right beside you. As always.

Exactly three inches away. At least you counted three.

It’s the closest you can stand without touching him, without the brushing of his arm, without creating that electric, dangerous feeling of his hand on your back, his voice in your ear, you’re mine tonight.

You’re both pretending that it didn’t happen. Neither of you have brought it up today.

Not since he texted you late last night, just one line saying sorry if I crossed a line.

Not since you replied with it’s fine, we were drinking and tired.

It’s not fine.

Now you’re standing under a harsh spotlight with your body angled slightly toward him like always.

You smile when the photographer tells you to. Charles does it too. And he’s good at it.

He turns to you mid-shot, leaning in as if he’s whispering something sweet and private for the camera. You feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your ear, and you fight the way your heart jumps.

“Are we okay?”

It’s the first time he’s said anything that close to something real in a week.

You keep smiling. Because the sponsor is watching. Because the cameras are still click click clicking.

Because the woman facilitating this shoot looks like she might cry if you didn’t sell this fake love story just a little bit fucking harder.

So you tilt your face toward his, press your hand to the center of his chest, right over his heart…and you nod, like you’re agreeing with some romantic phrase he could’ve said.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

The room echoes with praise. “Beautiful, you two.”

Your ears are buzzing and you barely hear the next instruction. Something about posing closer. Hands on waists. More intimacy.

Charles moves first. He steps forward and wraps his arm around your waist like it hasn’t been a week since he nearly broke you open with one quiet, possessive sentence.

You place your hand on his chest again. Because thats where it belongs now.

Because this is what you’re good at.

Pretending.

The elevator is quiet. And not a comfortable kind. No, this is the kind that makes your tight throat and chest heavy.

The numbers tick upward, each one feeling like a warning.

Charles stands beside you, hands in his pockets, with his shoulders pulled tight. You can feel the tension in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You speak first, voice too light. “Long day, hm?”

It’s pathetic, really. You hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, small and weak.

Charles doesn’t look at you, but his jaw clenches.

“You didn’t even look at me once today,” he says, and its not an accusation.

You blink, startled by how hurt he sounds. You open your mouth to respond, but don’t get the chance.

“You didn’t even laugh,” he looks down at his feet. “Not a real one.”

You glance at him, and he finally shifts to face you. And the look in his eyes makes your stomach turn. Because he doesn’t look angry. No, he looks tired. He looks vulnerable.

“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says, his voice barely above the sound of the elevator noises.

“It was a long week. We were tired. Drinking.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You lean against the wall, holding your hands in front of you tightly.

“The problem is I didn’t say enough,” he mutters. “I meant what I said. At the gala. In the hallway. In your bed.”

And you flinch.

Not because you don’t remember, but because you do.

Every breath. Every touch.

“Don’t.” You swallow hard.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder.”

He laughs, once. But it’s bitter. Hollow. “You think this is me making it hard?”

“We crossed a line.”

His eyes flicker, and his voice is so low when he speaks next.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’ve been standing on it for weeks. Maybe longer. Only difference is I let myself believe I wasn’t alone on it.”

Your stomach is twisted in knots and he takes a step toward you. Not touching, but close enough.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he says. “Tell me it was just sex. That it meant nothing to you.”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is there, dying to be let out. But you can’t.

So you remain still.

And when the elevator doors open on your floor, you step out with your stomach in your throat, your feet hitting the carpet with soft thuds.

You don’t look back.

But you hear it.

The sound of his hand catching the doors before they close, the sudden groan of the elevator stalling. And then, footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Angry.

You stop walking, but don’t turn around until he’s already there. His breath is quick and his jaw is locked tight.

“Are you really just gonna walk away?” He asks, his voice is sharp, but not loud. Not cruel. Just full of emotions he doesn’t know how to say calmly anymore.

You turn halfway, just enough to see the frustration etched on his face. His brows drawn tight, mouth tight, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t, he’ll just reach for you again.

“What do you want me to do, Charles?” Your voice is quiet. “Pretend that night didn’t happen? Or pretend it did, and it meant nothing?”

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t mean everything,” he snaps, taking another step forward, closing the space between you both. “I want you to stop looking at me like I’m asking you for something that isn’t already yours.”

Your skin buzzes.

“I know you feel this,” his voice is shaking now. “Because I see the way you look at me. I feel the way you hold me. The way you whisper my name.. So…don’t stand here and pretend like it was just sex.”

You feel yourself begin to shake.

And all you can say is, “I can’t afford to need you.”

His eyes flicker, anger giving way to something hollow. “Too late,” he says. “You already do.”

And then he turns. Walks away. And leaves you standing there.

The garage is nearly empty. Just you and Charles, still in uniform. Like clockwork.

The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to the air while you sit, finishing up your notes. Or at least pretending to.

He’s leaning against the edge of the workbench, arms folded, gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Like he wants to say something. Like it’s burning him alive.

You feel it too.

So, you set your tablet down. “Are you going to say something, or just keep staring at me?”

His jaw clenches. Then, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You look up at him. “And yet, you keep bringing it up.”

“Because you act like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”

You exhale slowly, “What do you want me to say, Charles?”

And he’s pushing off the bench, taking a few steps closer. “You’re angry because I meant it. And I’m angry that you’re still pretending you don’t feel this.”

Your pulse stutters and he’s close now. So close that you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do this again.” You say, quietly, like a whisper in the wind.

“Why?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because if I say it again, you’ll have to admit it’s real?”

He takes another step. “I think about you all the time. Touching you all the time. And not just when we’re in front of people. Especially when we’re alone. I wake up thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you when you’re not performing, when no one is watching, when it’s just us.”

Your hands tighten into fists.

“I want to hold you late in the night and tell you things I’m not allowed to say. I want to call you mine and it actually be true.”

“And you think this is easy for me?” It’s the first time you’ve broken character.

He blinks, slightly shocked. Like he can’t believe he has you starting to talk.

“I go home at night smelling like you,” you whisper, like it hurts to say. “Wearing your clothes. Curling into bedsheets that still feel like your hands were on me only hours ago. And I pretend him fine.”

You look back up at him then, barely holding it together. He’s wide-eyed, not taking the risk to say one word, not when he finally has you speaking.

“I pretend I don’t notice how every part of me aches when you leave. That I don’t hear your voice even when you’re not around.” You swallow hard.

“I go through the motions. Tell myself that this is all fake, and it’s just something we signed up for. But then I catch you looking at me like that and it feels like my ribs might crack.”

His eyes are slightly glassy now. But you keep going, because there’s no going back from this. No way out of this, not with him being so persistent. Not when your emotions could swallow you whole if you hide them any longer.

“I come back to my room at night, wearing your hoodies, and pretend that it’s just because I’m cold and that they’re comfortable. I pretend I’m not holding it closer to me whenever I miss you.”

Silence.

“I love you. And it’s killing me, because every day I have to pretend that I don’t.”

“Say it again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Please,” he begs. “Say it again. I didn’t think I’d ever hear it.”

Your throat tightens, but you do it anyways. “I love you.”

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against yours, shaking as he whispers, “I’ve been in love with you for so long that I forgot what it feels like not to be.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face toward his. And then he kisses you.

Like it’s everything.

Like he’s finally. Finally, fucking home.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #cl16 x you #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine

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neferaskingdom · 1 month ago

Text

♡ Mini-Charles | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: He’s used to fans, but something about this tiny one in Suzuka hits different, and Charles can’t stop smiling. Mini-Charles 2026 pretty-please? you'd make such an amazing maman mon amour-

A/N: Chat I fear I cooked with this one. Mini-Charles literally made my ovaries almost burst, so I present thee with this little blurb.

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

One of the best parts about the Japanese Grand Prix was always the fan stage. Rain or shine, Suzuka fans showed up in full force, enthusiastic, respectful, and often wildly creative. Charles had seen all kinds of things over the years—handmade banners, fans in full Ferrari suits, even one guy who brought a cardboard cutout of him as a saint to every single event. But this time, something, or rather someone, really stole the show.

It started when Charles was doing the fan Q&A alongside Lewis. He was mid-sentence, answering one fan’s question, when he noticed a flash of red near the front row. Not the usual Ferrari cap or flag, but something... smaller.

A child, maybe five or six years old, standing perfectly still with his hands on his hips in what could only be described as an exact replica of Charles’ fireproofs. Down to the logos. Even the custom detailing on the sleeves. He was wearing a mini version of Charles’ helmet too—full visor, the matte red and white colors perfectly matched. And the stance. God, he was standing exactly like Charles does when he’s focused in the garage.

Next to him were two girls around the same age. One was decked out in Max’s navy fireproofs and helmet, and the other had gone all out in papaya orange, even painting freckles on her cheeks like Lando. But it was the little Charles clone that made him pause mid-answer.

He leaned slightly toward Lewis, nodding subtly toward the kid.

"You seeing this?"

Lewis squinted. Then grinned. "Mini-you? Yeah. That kid's got your whole aura going on."

Charles laughed softly, eyes still glued to the boy. "He stands like me. That's terrifying."

"He's probably got the hand gestures down too."

Charles kept glancing at him throughout the session. Every time he looked, mini-Charles was looking back up at him, visor slightly tilted, tiny hands on his hips like he was part of the team.

It didn’t take long before a Ferrari PR staffer approached the boy’s guardian and arranged for them to come into the garage. Word traveled fast, and before Charles had even finished his media rounds, he heard, "Little Leclerc's in the garage!"

The name stuck immediately.

She found Charles in the Ferrari hospitality area a few minutes later, practically bouncing as he pulled her by the hand.

"You need to come see this kid. I swear to God, it’s like someone shrunk me."

She raised an eyebrow. "They cloned you in Japan?"

“I just wanna see him up close,” he said, glancing back at her with the giddiest grin. “He had the little visor, chérie. The visor! And the gloves. Like mine! And he even did the pose. Did you see that?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I saw. You’ve been smiling like an idiot ever since.”

He didn’t even deny it. “I love him. He’s my favorite person here.”

By the time they reached the garage, mini-Charles was standing between two engineers, who were enthusiastically showing him how the pit boards worked. His fireproofs were real. High-quality replicas down to the seams, probably custom-made. Even his boots had the little CL16 logo printed on them. He was soaking it all in with this quiet, intense focus that looked way too familiar.

Charles crouched down and called softly, "Hey, champion."

The boy turned instantly, visor flipped up to reveal a round face and wide brown eyes. He didn’t speak—just lit up with a shy grin and ran the last few steps into Charles’ waiting arms.

Charles caught him effortlessly and stood, the kid now perched on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. His tiny gloves clutched the front of Charles’ polo, and the smile Charles gave him was soft, full of awe.

"You see this?" he asked her quietly. "I mean, come on. Look at the gloves. The detail. He’s even got the sponsor patches."

She stepped closer, smiling as she took in the sight of the boy.

"He’s better dressed than you."

Charles crouched beside him. “Tu es magnifique. You look better in my suit than I do.”

The boy just stared up at him in awe. “You’re my favorite driver.”

Charles clutched his chest, looking like he was about to melt into a puddle any second. “Mon coeur. I’m done for. You are adorable.”

They took photos—a lot of them. With the engineers, the mechanics, even Fred Vasseur came over to see what all the fuss was about and ended up holding the boy for a photo. The engineers joined in. The boy was passed around the garage like a VIP guest, posing with everyone, giving high-fives, and pretending to check tire pressures with an air of serious professionalism.

She stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching Charles with a fond smile that she didn’t even try to hide. He was fully enchanted. There was a softness in the way he bent to talk to the boy, the way he smoothed the kid’s hair when it stuck out from the helmet. She hadn’t seen that side of him in a while—not since their last trip to her home when he spent a whole afternoon playing pretend race car with her nephew in the living room.

Then Charles was waving her over, grinning. “Come on, chérie. You have to be in the photo too.”

“I’m not in uniform,” she said, gesturing to herself.

“But you’re part of the team,” he insisted. “We need a proper photo. Mini-Leclerc needs his whole crew.”

The three of them posed together—Charles, her, and the tiny version of him in the middle, clutching the helmet proudly.

"Smile!" someone called. "We need a nice family photo of the Leclercs!"

She froze slightly at the comment, but Charles just grinned, looking between her and the boy with a soft, far-off, dreamy expression. He didn’t correct them. Didn’t even blink.

After the photos, someone jokingly put mini-Charles on the scale, and the number made Charles nearly choke.

"Sixteen point sixteen kilos? Are you kidding me? That’s... that’s my number! Twice!"

He was laughing, absolutely delighted, holding the boy’s hand as the mechanics lost it behind him.

Later that night, back in the hotel, he was still grinning.

"Did you see how he stood by the car? Like he was about to jump in and drive it. I swear, it was like watching a tiny version of myself."

She sat on the bed, watching as he opened his phone and showed her photos from earlier. "Look at this one. Look how he’s holding my visor like it’s sacred. This kid gets it."

"You were smitten."

"Can you blame me? I mean... that could be our actual little Leclerc one day."

She looked up slowly. "Oh, we’ve moved on from 'mini-me' to actual mini Leclerc now?"

He leaned into her side with a sigh. “He was perfect. Did you see how serious he looked when I let him sit in the simulator? Like a little pro.”

She smiled. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am,” he admitted easily. “I want one.”

She blinked. “A simulator?”

“A Mini-Me. Like… a real one. Ours.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want a kid now?”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t, like, wake up thinking that. But then I saw him, and—mon dieu—he looked exactly like me. It was so weird. And he had the little gloves and the fireproofs. I swear, he had the same little fold in the elbow. I didn’t know kids could look that cool.”

She laughed. “Charles.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I already found a onesie online. Look.”

He pulled up his phone and showed her a Ferrari red baby onesie with a tiny number 16 on the back.

“Stop.”

“There’s a mini balaclava too,” he said, completely ignoring her tone. “And look—this one has a hood shaped like a helmet. Isn’t that cute? I mean, come on. This baby looks ready for a race.”

“Charles. You're literally in the middle of a championship fight. You don’t sleep enough as it is. Not to mention you travel all year. When would you even see this baby?”

“‘I’d make time obviously.”

“And babies cry. And don’t sleep. And poop. A lot.”

“I can handle poop.”

She stared. “That’s your strongest argument?”

“No, my strongest argument is that I would make an amazing dad,” he said proudly. “I would be so fun. Like, I’d teach them how to race little go-karts and read them bedtime stories in three languages. And make the best sandwiches for school lunches. And if they wanted to wear their race suit to preschool, I’d let them.”

She bit her lip to hold back a laugh. “Max is having a baby,” he added after a pause.

“Oh no. You’re not doing this.”

“Why not? I’m just saying. Max is having a baby.”

“And?”

“So why can’t we?”

“Charles, this isn’t a competition.”

He pouted. “It’s not not a competition.”

“Unbelievable.”

He sighed and slumped against her, his fingers drawing aimless shapes on her arm. “You’d be such a good maman. You’re warm and patient and you already take care of me and Leo. It’d be easy.”

“Charles Leo is a dog. You’re talking about an actual real life baby here!”

“I’m not saying now now,” he said quickly. “Just… soonish. Ish. I’m just planting the idea. Watering the seed. Like a gardener.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can the gardener sleep now?”

He grinned. “Can I fall asleep while showing you just one more video? It’s this baby in a chef outfit trying to flip pancakes and he throws them on the dog.”

She groaned. “Bed. Now. It’s not the right time for this conversation.”

He followed her into bed, still murmuring about Mini-Charles and tiny helmets and kids in the paddock.

As she lay down, he slid in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "What if I just... keep showing you baby videos until it becomes the right time?"

"That’s not how this works."

"I found one earlier of a baby eating spaghetti for the first time and just losing it. It reminded me of you."

"Charles No."

"Or the one with the baby who keeps saying 'no' to everything? That one’s also very familiar."

"Go to sleep."

“I’d call him Jules,” he whispered against her neck. “If it’s a boy.”

“Go to sleep, Charles.”

He pouted into her shoulder. “Fine. But at least think about it. Just saying, Little Leclerc has a nice ring to it."

She turned off the bedside lamp and rolled back towards him, burying her face in his chest. "Sleep now. Babies later."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and sighed.

"Fine. But just you wait. One day, I’m putting that onesie in my shopping cart."

And she couldn’t help but smile.

Because if today had shown her anything, it was that Charles Leclerc would make a very cute dad. Just... maybe not this season.

“Bonne nuit, future maman.”

“Stop!”

He grinned against her shoulder and didn’t say another word. But she could feel the way his fingers gently traced circles over her stomach, and she didn’t stop him.

Maybe one day. Just not today.

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dannyriccsystem · 21 days ago

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i swear im in love w your posts and your account 😭 the way you write the drivers feels rly accurate, i had an idea for an au after i saw that video w the papaya boys looking down at the camera w their helmets on so maybe something about reader telling the drivers to 'sleep' w them only wearing their helmets 🙂‍↕️hehe no pressure 🧡

THE HELMET STAYS ON.

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

Summary: Begging the drivers to nail you with their helmet on. And they do.

Warnings: Pure smut, Y/N usage, P in V, foreplay, reader has a tongue piercing in one of them, hair pulling, blowjob, the whole nine yards. Basically really filthy. Also not proofread because it was embarrassing enough just writing this.

Featuring: MV1, DR3, LN4, CL16, CS55, OP81

This video. Oh my days. I have nothing appropriate to say.

One more before I sleep. I’m kind of scared to post this, this is my first super out there post.

(Do feel free to request risqué stuff idm!)

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

“Let me get this straight,” Your boyfriend stood in front of you as you sat, prettily perched on the edge of the bed with an innocent smile, despite what you just asked. “You,” He pointed to you. “Want me,” and then to himself. “To fuck you. With the helmet on.” He raised both of his brows.

You looked off to the side, and then back at him, nodding. “Sounds about right, yeah.” You confirmed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but with a sigh… He reluctantly gave in. Anything for his beloved girlfriend, I guess.

“M-ahhh-x,” You groaned out his name, nails desperately clawing at his bare back for some sort of leverage. Your legs were quivering as he slowly thrusted into you, his hips moving in such a hypnotic way. Even off the track, his pace was consistent, apparently.

All of his skin was exposed, every last inch, except for his face. It was covered by his iconic helmet design, the visor pulled down to conceal the expression in his eyes. You were certain they were darkened with lust, but had no proof of it.

His hands gripped your waist, hoisting you up to get an even deeper angle. Your legs wrapped around him weakly, trying to pull him in closer. At this point, you could barely move them.

He brought his helmeted face down closer to your ear, the sound of his voice deliciously muffled by the soft casing surrounding his head, “You asked for this, lieverd.” You whined out at his typical pet name, which sounded so dirty now. You were unsure if you’d ever be able to see your boyfriend in an innocent light ever again.

Your hands grabbed both sides of his helmet, mouth drawn open in an ‘O’ as you weakly moaned for him. The sweet sounds motivated him further, allowing him to draw out his final thrusts. He pulled out, hands stroking his length as you pressed soft kisses to the surface of his helmet.

He came on your stomach. With one hand, Max lifted the visor while the other gentle traced a heart onto your cum-coated belly.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

“Danny?” You came out of his bedroom one day, finding him relaxed on the couch. He leaned his head over to look at you, motioning for you to continue. In your hands was the cause of confusion— His old racing helmet. The last one he ever wore, to be exact.

It was a black helmet with a sparkly flame that shined different colors depending on the lighting. You remembered him wearing it in Singapore, the last race he ever competed in. It probably held a lot of special memories. “Do you use your old helmets for anything? I see you have a few in our room.”

“Hmm, nah. Mostly just decoration.” He shrugs and turns to sit with one leg folded underneath him, the other hanging over the edge of the couch. His elbows were propped on the back as he stared at you. “Why?” He smirked almost like he could see the gears turning.

“Wanna have sex with one on?” The answer was always yes.

It wasn’t quite what you were expecting, in the best way possible. Nothing could have prepared you for the animal that your boyfriend would become upon exploding this new area of your sex lives.

He had one of your legs pushed in the air, resting over his shoulder, which allowed him more space to thrust experimentally. The other laid on the side of his thigh, your hips held up by his free hand to get a better angle. You propped yourself up on your elbows, head slightly angled down while you stared through damp lashes.

“Fuck, Danny…” You whined, your hips twitching with a little gasp. He groaned, his head falling forward until the helmet was carefully pressed against your forehead. His grip on your raised thigh was tight, practically digging into your skin to keep himself from going feral.

“Feel that?” He muttered, his voice enveloped in the cushy walls of his helmet. The hand that held you up at the waist circled around, palm pressing down on your stomach to emphasize the slight bulge. He cursed under his breath, his hips stuttering and his dick twitching. “Shit.”

He leg your leg fall against the mattress as he carefully slipped out. One hand massaged your sore folds, bringing you to your peak just as he reached his. You both climaxed together, your thighs painted with his arousal.

He carefully lifted the helmet, still panting as he looked down at the mess he made. “Satisfied?” He asked, voice hoarse. You grinned, eyes droopy.

“Very.”

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

There was something special about Lando in his signature green helmet. The helmet itself was bland, but it was his staple. When he wore it, it was unimaginably attractive to you.

You tried to ignore it, but during one of his week long breaks, you decided to address the issue upfront. It was a hard topic to approach, so you figured now was a good time to be as blunt as possible.

“I want to fuck you while you wear your helmet.” Literally. As blunt as possible.

He looked taken aback, and rightfully so. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why…” He asked next. It was hard to discern what sort of face that was supposed to be. Confusion? Disgust? Arousal? All three at once?

“Because it’s hot.”

He fell silent, and then pulled you into his room where the helmet in question sat, like it was ready for this moment.

“Not so confident now, are you?” His husky voice murmured in your ear. You were currently bent over with your hands against his bedroom door to support yourself, your ass stuck out against him. All while your legs trembled. If one of his hands wasn’t supporting you under your stomach, you’d have collapsed by now.

Strong hands gripped your hair, tugging your head backwards to get a good look at your fucked out expression, and your stretched neck that was littered with deep purple marks. All you could do was softly cry out in pleasure as a reply to his question, which earned a dark chuckle from your boyfriend.

“Regretting your choice yet?” You shook your head with teary eyes. You couldn’t see his face, cloaked beneath the secrecy of a bright green racing helmet, but you knew for a fact he was smirking. Every thrust was carried out confidently, sending a resounding smack through the room. The sounds were sticky from the buildup of arousal.

“Laan,” You drawled out his name, eyes twitching as you struggled to keep them open. You could feel another orgasm approaching— Just one of many for the night. “P-Please—”

“Please what?” Another tug of the hair, making you whimper. “Use your words, pretty.”

“Let me cum,” You whined, your voice trembling. He continued silently for another thrust or two before the hand on your stomach traveled down to massage your clit, sending you over the edge. You squealed out, lurching forward to rest against the door.

He pulled his throbbing length out, releasing onto your back. With a heavy, satisfied sigh, Lando scooped you up and gently laid you on his mattress, littering your aching body with kisses upon the removal of his helmet.

“You did so good for me.”

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

Charles and you had been together for a while, and it was safe to say you knew your way around each other’s bodies. However, neither of you quite knew the other’s mind.

It was hard to pinpoint the specific kinks and such. If you were both paying attention you could figure out the little things you liked— For example, Charles liked kitten licks on the tip, and he loved you in red lingerie. And you liked sensual sex with romance and eye contact.

However, there was something you had never been able to admit until now. “Can you keep the helmet on for tonight?” He blinked at your question, already half naked and hovering over you, who was… Entirely naked.

“Keep the helmet on?”

“Yeah. Just to try it out.”

It didn’t take much convincing.

The entire experience changed when the helmet came on. Maybe you were expecting him to take a dominant stance, but it seemed as soon as the mask came on he was a whining and stuttering mess.

Charles was propped up on his elbows as you straddled his hips, grinding yourself further onto his impaled cock. He couldn’t even form a sentence, just desperately grip your hips and occasionally involuntarily thrust up into your tight heat. He was thankful for the helmet, actually. That way you couldn’t see his pathetic expression.

“Feels good,” You praised, your voice like honey. He squeezed the fat of your hips tighter, both of his index fingers anxiously tapping against your skin. He wasn’t normally so… Submissive like this.

You reached out, lifting the visor of his helmet to unveil his eyes. Just his eyes, that’s all you could see, but they told you exactly what you needed to know. With furrowed brows and a watery gaze, he made direct eye contact with you.

His hands traveled to find yours, squeezing them tight while you rode him. He could barely ground himself, but your steady presence certainly helped. “Y/N-” He finally managed to splutter out, his legs twitching and his hips jerking.

“Shh, you’re okay,” You whispered, moving your hips faster. “You got it, you’re doing great.” At your praise, he seemed to lose it, spilling deep inside you.

His body collapsed against the mattress, leaving you to carefully lift his helmet and brush his damp hair away from his eyes.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

You came home from a stressful day to your boyfriend standing in the dining room, examining his racing helmet under the light. “What are you doing?” You questioned softly as you set your things down on the table.

Her flinched, but relaxed as soon as he realized it was just you, and there was no need to be worried. “Just thinking.” You raised your brow as if asking ‘about?’ He showed you the helmet, and you just shrugged with a lack of understanding. “I want to fuck you with it on.”

You blinked at his forwardness, your gaze shifting from the helmet, and then to him. “If you’re comfortable with it, I don’t mind.”

Sex with Carlos was typically slow and sensual, just what you needed after a long day.

Not this time.

He had you folded in ways you didn’t even know were possible. Your knees were pressed to your chest, hands gripping the sheets as he fucked into you in your folded position. He hovered over you, one hand on the headboard and the other on the curve of your ass.

He grunted, but most of the noise was coming from you. “C-… Carlos!” You yelped, surprised by the change in tone. Your eyes twitched, threatening to roll back into your skull. You tried to swallow your moans, but it was impossible to keep silent.

He suddenly grabbed both of your hands, bringing them up to hold your own legs back. He busied his digits with your hole. Two fingers circled your needy clit, making your legs ache and shake. The other two slid right in with his cock, plunging in and out in a rhythmic manner.

“Feel good?” He questioned in that thick accent, ensuring your comfort over all. You couldn’t form a coherent response, leaving you to just nod a silent yes.

It seemed like ages he toyed with your poor hole, but finally he pulled free and let himself release onto your stomach. You let your legs fall to the mattress, twitching occasionally. Both of you panted as he removed the helmet, sweat dripping from his forehead. His hair was beautifully messy.

“That was…” He trailed off.

“Hot,” You finished for him.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

You had been giggling to yourself all day as you stared at your phone. It was beginning to make Oscar anxious as he automatically assumed the worst. With sudden steeled courage, he decided to confront you.

“What have you been looking at? You haven’t stopped laughing at your phone.” His tone was calm, but inside he was slightly panicked. That is, until you turned the phone around to show him an edit. Of himself.

He had seen a few of them. Ever since him and Lando filmed that video showing off their helmets, the fans had been going crazy. “What about it?” He tilted his head, not unlike the way he did in said video. Your ovaries basically exploded.

“Do you have your helmet?” He nodded. “Put it on.”

Well, you didn’t have to tell him twice.

This… Wasn’t exactly what Oscar had been expecting. He knew you had something filthy in mind, but to suck him off while he was wearing nothing but his helmet was a little absurd, even for you.

Thankfully, he accepted the freak in you.

Your tongue darted out to give his tip a little lick, the cold metal of your tongue piercing making him twitch. He shuddered, a deep groan leaving his lips. Without even thinking, his hands grabbed the back of your head. However, he relaxed before making any sharp movements, and let it rest there for now.

You experimented further, plump lips encasing his whole tip, cheeks hollowing experimentally. He groaned, head tilted back momentarily. You looked at him through your lashes, giggling around his length when he peered back down, the movement unbearably attractive in your eyes.

You placed your hands on his thighs to balance yourself, and slowly took more of him in. He tried to keep quiet, but he could only bite back so many groans before they started to flood out. As your pace increased, his grip on the back of your head did, too.

Eventually, you weren’t even moving anymore. He was just full on face fucking you to get himself off, and you didn’t care. You let your mouth be used by your boyfriend, whose hips were jerking in and out in a spontaneous rhythm.

He finally came to a stop, his length twitching as he pulled it out. Half of his seed was shot onto your face, while the rest was expertly aimed for your mouth.

He was breathing heavily as he lifted the helmet, peering down at you with a heaving chest. “Holy shit.”

That was by far the most emotion anyone had ever gotten out of him.

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vitalverstappen · 2 months ago

Text

Man's Best Wingman - C. Leclerc

summary: they say dogs are a man’s best friend, but a certain dachshund may be man’s best wingman

pairing: Charles Leclerc x veterinarian!reader

warnings: none ( i mean use of y/n if you count that)

word count: 2.6k

It was no surprise that Charles Leclerc adored animals, specifically dogs. So, when word spread like wildfire around Monaco that he had adopted Leo, it was only a matter of time before the duo showed up in your clinic.

You had heard about Leo from the gossip mill - Charles had been spotted walking the dog around the streets of Monte Carlo, and the photos of the two of them quickly made the rounds on social media. The sight of the Formula 1 driver, usually so composed and intense, walking around with an adorable dachshund puppy had the whole city cooing with affection.

You had been working as a vet for a few years now, as one of the only ones in Monaco, so you were no stranger to having a celebrity walk through your doors. In fact, you had Alex Albon walking through your doors practically every month with the zoo he had. But hearing your techs swoon at the fact Charles was in your clinic, made you question how big this guy really was.

“Y/n, Leo Leclerc is in room four for you. He’s here for his routine exam. So far everything looks good,” one of your techs said.

“I bet Charles looks even better,” another one called, overhearing the conversation.

Your eyes rolled, but you couldn’t help but chuckle at their remarks. “Focus on Leo, not Charles,” you teased, though you knew their excitement was understandable.

Taking a deep breath to prepare yourself, you grabbed your stethoscope and walked toward room four. You were a professional, after all, and your job was to make sure Leo was in tip-top shape, not to let the celebrity connection distract you.

As you knocked lightly on the door, you heard a soft voice call from the other side. “Come in!”

You opened the door to find Charles sitting on the exam table, with Leo happily bouncing around at his feet. The little dachshund’s tail wagged furiously as soon as he spotted you, making a beeline for you as though he’d known you for ages.

“Hey there, Leo,” you said, crouching down to meet the enthusiastic puppy. You pet him for a second before standing back up. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N, but you can call me Y/N. I’ll be your primary veterinarian.”

Leo’s little tail wagged even harder at the mention of his name, and you couldn’t help but to smile at the sight. His big brown eyes stared up at you, full of trust and excitement.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” Charles said as he got off of the exam table. His smile was easy, and you noticed how much more approachable he looked when he wasn’t in his racing suit. “I’m glad to see you’re the one handling Leo today.”

You nodded, doing your best to focus on the task at hand, though your heart was pounding into your throat. “He’s a cutie. And I’ve heard a lot about him from the clinic’s gossip mill. Seems like you two are quite the duo.”

Charles chuckled lightly, glancing down at Leo, who was now sitting patiently at his feet, as if sensing the shift in attention. “Yeah, Leo’s been a good distraction for me. Definitely makes my life a bit more fun, and I think he’s a great companion for my downtime.”

You turned to Leo, picking him up and placing him on the exam table, where Charles once sat. “He’s got a lot of energy for a little guy. Looks like he’s been keeping you on your toes.”

Charles shrugged, the slightest hint of amusement in his expression. “He definitely does, but I love having him around. Plus, he’s a great way to relax after a stressful weekend, just walking him around and enjoying the quieter side of things.”

“Sounds perfect,” you replied, settling your stethoscope into place. “Let’s make sure everything is going well with him. I’ll just start with a quick check-up, get his vitals and make sure he’s healthy.”

You focused on Leo, quickly going through the routine exam. His heart rate was normal, his coat was shiny and healthy, and his eyes were bright. After a quick examination, you looked up at Charles. “He’s in great shape, Charles. No issues at all. He’s a happy, healthy little guy.”

Charles sighed in relief, his smile widening. “I’m glad to hear that. I was worried I might be doing something wrong.”

“Not at all,” you assured him, chuckling. “You’re doing everything right. It’s clear you care about him a lot.”

You scooped Leo into your arms and informed Charles you would be taking Leo into the back room to give him his shots. What you didn’t mention was that it was also an opportunity for all of the techs to fawn over the puppy.

Once you brought Leo back into the exam room, Charles' eyes lit up, though you were unsure if it was at you, or the dog. You gave him a few instructions for Leo’s next few weeks, including a reminder to keep up with his vaccinations. “He’s good to go! Just a few follow-ups, but nothing to worry about.”

You bid goodbye to the driver as you guided him up to the receptionist's desk. There, you gave instructions on the next exam date.

Charles had the day of the exam circled on his calendar the minute he got home. Sure, he wanted to be a good dog dad and pay attention to Leo’s appointments, but he also couldn’t wait to see you again.

Unfortunately, he didn’t realize that since Leo had done so well, the follow up appointments that had been scheduled were only with the techs, not with you. He went through with the appointments, but in the back of his mind, he had to find a way to see you again. And thankfully, Leo gave him plenty of excuses.

It all started when Leo ate a blade of grass.

Now, Charles knew that eating grass wasn’t going to kill his dog, but he was worried it might make him a little sick… and he wanted to see you again.

So, he scheduled an appointment.

As soon as you saw Charles and Leo’s names on the schedule, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tried to shake it off, you were just doing your job, but there was something about seeing him that made you feel a little lighter.

As the time drew nearer, you found yourself making sure everything was in order, the clinic bustling with its usual activity. Your techs were curious no doubt - they’d fawned over the duo when they took care of the dog’s follow up appointments, and definitely talked about the “celebrity dog dad” a little more than they probably should’ve.

“Y/n, Charles and Leo are in room three for you. He mentioned Leo had eaten some grass earlier today, but so far, everything seems normal,” your tech informed you

You walked towards the exam room, preparing yourself to see the driver and his dog again. As you entered, you saw Charles sitting on the chair this time, gently scratching behind Leo’s ears. The little dachshund’s tail was wagging, and he immediately perked up when he saw you, jumping down from Charles’ lap.

“Hey, Leo,” you greeted, crouching down to pet the excited pup. “What’s all this fuss about grass, huh?”

Charles looked up from his phone and smiled when he saw you. “Hey, Y/N. Yeah, Leo decided to sample some grass this morning, and now I’m just a little paranoid.”

You chuckled, standing up to meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Dogs eat grass all the time. Most of the time, it’s harmless. But let’s take a quick look just to be sure.”

You began your routine examination of Leo, checking his belly, feeling for any signs of discomfort, and listening to his heart. Leo seemed perfectly fine, happily squirming and wagging his tail as you worked.

“See?” you said, glancing up at Charles. “He seems to be in good spirits. No signs of anything bothering him.”

Charles let out a relieved sigh, but there was still a hint of concern in his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve just been overthinking it. But I’m still getting used to being a dog dad, you know?”

You smiled warmly, meeting his gaze. “Like I said at our first appointment, you’re going great, Charles. Leo’s in good hands.”

He looked at you with a soft smile, and for a moment, there was a brief pause in the conversation. It was like neither of you wanted to break the moment, but eventually, Charles cleared his throat and stood up.

“Thanks again, Y/N. Seriously,” he said, giving you an appreciative look. “I’m glad I came in today, even if it was just for a little blade of grass.”

“It’s no problem at all,” you replied, trying to keep your composure. “Take care of Leo, and we’ll see you for the next check-up.”

But you saw him much sooner than the next check-up.

Only a few weeks after the grass related appointment, your receptionist came into the back area, where you and your techs were prepping for surgery. You had a busy day ahead of you, with having back to back appointments all day, and the only break you got was your thirty minutes of lunch.

“Mr. Leclerc is on the phone,” your receptionist began, causing a bunch of oooo’s from your staff. “He said that Leo stubbed his toe and wanted to see if you had availability for today.”

You paused for a moment, wiping your hands on your scrubs as you turned toward your receptionist. “Leo stubbed his toe?” you asked, trying to suppress a smile. You could hear the excitement in your staff’s whispers behind you, but you didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much Charles’ calls were starting to feel like little breaks from the clinic chaos.

“Yeah, that’s what he said,” your receptionist replied, her tone amused. “Should I tell him to hold on or that you’re in surgery?”

You quickly ran through your schedule in your head. It was packed, but a stubbed toe? You could squeeze that in. You didn’t want to seem like you were too eager, but you couldn’t help but feel a little excitement at the thought of seeing Charles again.

“I can take a shorter lunch,” you said, giving your receptionist a quick nod. “Schedule him for the last twenty minutes of that half hour.”

Your receptionist raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as she turned to make the call. As soon as the door closed behind her, your techs immediately leaned in, their eyes sparking with curiosity.

“You know you two aren’t fooling anyone, right?” one of them teased. “You’re excited to see Charles again.

“And he’s got to be wanting to see you if he’s making an appointment over a stubbed toe,” another one chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, trying to stifle a grin. ‘It’s just a stubbed toe,” you replied, but your voice betrayed you, laced with a hint of amusement. “He’s just a concerned dog dad. Nothing more.”

Your techs exchanged knowing glances, clearly not buying it.

“Uh-huh,” one of them smirked. “A ‘concerned dog dad’ who keeps calling in for the tiniest little thing. Sure.”

“Maybe you should get him a frequent flyer card,” another suggested, grinning.

You shook your head, trying to ignore the warmth growing in your cheeks. “Focus, guys. You have things to do, remember?”

They held up their hands in mock surrender, but you could still feel their eyes on you as you turned back to finish prepping for the day.

When the status of Leo’s appointment changed to “arrived” on your computer, it took everything in you to remain calm and composed. The butterflies in your stomach only grew as you heard Leo’s excited barks from down the hall.

Once your techs informed you that the Leclercs were ready to see you, you made your way to the exam room, trying to keep yourself steady with every step. When you opened the door, Charles was sitting there, looking as relaxed as ever, with Leo perched on his lap.

“Hey there, you,” you greeted Leo first, just like you always did. “I heard you got a stubbed toe this time around.”

Charles chuckled, giving you a sheepish look. “I know, it’s ridiculous. But he seemed to be limping a little, and I didn’t want to take any chances.”

You nodded, appreciating his concern for his dog. “It’s never ridiculous to take care of our furry friends,” you said, your eyes briefly meeting his. There was a warmth in his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down.

You got Leo up on the exam table, gently checking his paws and making sure everything looked good. As you worked, you noticed Charles’ gaze lingering on you - though this time, it felt different. His smile was softer, more intentional, and there was something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat.

Finally, after checking Leo’s paw, you turned to Charles. “Good news. It’s just a little sore, probably from the way he landed. No major damage.”

Charles visibly relaxed, his tension easing as he gave a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that.”

As you gave Leo a few gentle pats and wrote down the instructions for recovery, you could feel Charles’ eyes on you again. There was a quiet moment between you two, one that made the air feel just a little thicker, like there was more unsaid than spoken.

“Thank you for always being so patient with me, and with Leo, and I appreciate you squeezing us in at the last minute,” Charles said, standing up to walk toward the door. He paused for a beat, then glanced back at you with a small but meaningful smile. “Would I be able to squeeze into your schedule again sometime, for coffee or drinks?”

You felt your heart flutter as the words hung in the air. It was the question you’d been waiting for, yet the reality of it still made your breath catch in your throat. For a second, you just looked at him, the familiar warmth in his smile making your pulse quicken.

You tried to play it cool, but you couldn’t hide the slight blush creeping onto your cheeks. “I think I could make some time for you,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “I’m not usually this free, but for you? I’ll make an exception.”

Charles’s smile widened, and you could see a spark of relief in his eyes. He stepped back into the room, the distance between you narrowing as he moved closer. “Tomorrow? After work?” he asked, his tone a little more tentative, as if waiting for your confirmation.

You nodded, your heart racing a little faster now. “Tomorrow works. Let’s say, six?”

He gave a small, excited nod, clearly trying to contain his enthusiasm. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up. I’ll make sure not to keep you waiting.”

You both stood there for a moment, the air thick with anticipation, before he gave a final smile and turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

As he exited the room, Leo wagged his tail, clearly eager to follow. You watched him walk out, a mixture of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside you. You leaned against the exam room table for a second, trying to catch your breath, before shaking yourself out of the daze. You still had a job to do, but you couldn’t help but smile to yourself as the thought of tomorrow played over in your mind.

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idkwhatimdoinghere1655 · 7 months ago

Text

Journals - Charles Leclerc

It had now been 5 years since you and Charles had started going out, and what a 5 years it had been. There had been tears, laughter, anger, and pure, unfiltered love. Despite the hectic, emotional rollercoaster that you had ridden together, you wouldn't change it for the world.

And now, this morning was the morning of his birthday. His 27th, to be more precise. The 5th of his that you would be spending together, and hopefully the 5th of many, many more. He was never really fussed about the day when it just told him he was getting older, but you liked to celebrate nonetheless.

You had gotten up before Charles, canceling his alarm the previous evening when he had fallen asleep to give him a well-deserved lie-in. Everything was already prepped and ready to go, so all you had to do was make sure it was all in place.

You crept out of bed, scampering off to the kitchen so that he couldn't hear your footsteps on the hardwood floor. You had bought some helium balloons the previous day and hid them in one of the cupboards in your walk-in closet. He'd never find them in there.

You also picked out the single box that was wrapped in the most colourful wrapping paper you could find, bringing it into the bedroom and putting it on your side of the bed. You put the balloons on his side and let Charles sleep longer.

Around an hour had gone by, and he still hadn't stirred. One thing you always marveled at with Charles was his ability to just sleep. Didn't matter how many hours or how loud anyone was being around him, the man would sleep. He'd probably sleep through an F5 tornado if you'd let him try.

"Charles?" you softly said, nudging his shoulder. All the man from Monaco could do was grunt and roll away from you, pulling the covers up to his shoulders. "Baby c'mon," you chuckled as he turned his head to look at you, squinting through one eye.

"5 more minutes, mon amour..." he mumbled, closing his eyes and settling back in again. You didn't want to force him up, since he'd be grumpy. And, the last thing you needed was a grumpy Charles on his birthday.

"Fine, 5 more minutes," you relented, sitting back against the pillows as you counted down his extra sleep time.

"Darling, c'mere," he sleepily mumbled, rolling back over to face you as he pulled the covers back and opened his arms out.

"What?" you laughed, and the scowl on his face was more adorable than it was scary. If Charles wanted something, he wouldn't stop until he got it. Even if he wasn't getting anything but laughed at when he pulled a face like that.

"I want cuddles. And before you deny me, let me stress that they are birthday cuddles," he instructed, but there was no real frustration in his words. As he had said, there was no way that a good girlfriend would say no to birthday cuddles, so you did as he asked.

Shuffling closer to him, you shifted to lay by his side, and he wasted no time in wrapping his arms around you and pulling you so that your head rested on his chest. "See? That wasn't so difficult. Now we're both comfy," he teased, holding you tighter.

"Never said it was difficult," you mumbled, the claws of tiredness trying to drag you back into the realm of sleep. It wasn't like you had anything to do for the rest of the day, so not getting up right now wasn't the end of the world.

You drifted back off to sleep, snuggling even more into Charles' side, embracing the comfort he brought. How much time had passed? You didn't know.

When you woke up, you opened your eyes to Charles looking down at you with a listless smile on his face. "And you were knocked out for another 3 hours." he chuckled, not too loudly since you had just woken up.

"3 hours?" you asked, shocked that you had been out for that much longer. Glancing over him to the clock on his bedside table, you saw that it was nearing 12 pm, but you felt very well rested.

"Yes darling, 3 hours. You were out like a light. And, thank you for the balloons and the random box on the bed. I haven't opened it, don't worry," he smiled, and the realization hit you like a tonne of bricks.

"Oh my God, happy birthday!" you squealed, obviously being more excited for his birthday than he was at this point. Scrambling out of the lying down position that you were in, you moved to straddle his lap and pepper kisses all over his face. "How does it feel to be 27?" you asked him, holding his face in your hands.

"I can feel the hip replacement coming on, that's for sure," he chuckled, and all you could do was roll your eyes at him. "But I feel a hell of a lot better now that you're where you are," he smirked, tugging you closer by your hips.

"You don't need a hip replacement, drama queen," you laughed, ruffling up his already messy hair.

"No, no I don't. All I need is you, right where you are," he grinned, leaning in and kissing you. It started off soft and chaste before quickly turning more passionate, hungrier. "You have no idea what you do to me," he mumbled against your lips, gripping your hips harder.

"Oi, not yet, presents first," you told him, trying to get off his lap. Charles was one step ahead, holding you down.

"It's my birthday, can't I decide what I want?" he pouted, trying to lean in for another kiss.

"For the rest of the day, yes. But now? You're just gonna have to listen to me," he said, getting off his lap before he could protest again.

"God it's a good job I love you." he scoffed, letting you grab the box and replace yourself with it on his lap. "And what's this?" he asked.

"Gotta open it to find out, silly," you giggled, watching him with bated breath. This was something you had been waiting literal years to give him and now seemed like the right time to finally hand it over.

Ripping the wrapping paper off of the box, nothing but cardboard was revealed to him. He opened the flaps, seeing the leather-bound journal as the contents. He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at you, and you just nodded.

He picked it up, scanning his eyes over the plain cover. "Open it," you told him, eager to see his reaction to it. Opening the cover, his eyes fell to the note scrawled on to the inside of it.

'Dear Charles, happy birthday! The big 27... not long until you're 30, eh? Anyway, I have been wanting to give you this for a while, but I didn't think it was quite complete. Now, however, I feel like it's the right time. This has been a work in progress for 5 years, and I really really hope you like it. I love you.'

"What?" he asked again, and you just expectantly looked at him. Tentatively, he turned the first page of the book. "You... is this...?" he trailed off, reading the words scrawled on the page.

'7/8/19 - I've got a date tonight... Yeah. You read that right. A date. A real date. I met him in the coffee shop on Monday and he asked me out. Who knew that kind of shit actually happened to people? He is absolutely gorgeous, apparently he's famous so we'll see just how famous he is.

OK, I just googled him and he's a Formula 1 driver. How the hell I am going on a date with this man is beyond me, but I am not complaining! I'll let you know how it goes!

I just got home and oh my lord that was the best date I have ever been on. He's just so... lovely. Like he is such a gentleman and I really really really like him! He gave me his number, so you best believe I am asking for another date. Unless he's not interested... which is like... totally fine... wouldn't be upset at all...'

"Is this just from the early days or is this everything up until now?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the pages. The first few were mainly writing, until there were more pictures of the two of you, receipts, tickets, just everything and anything you could get your hands on and stick in the book.

"This is everything from 2019 up to the start of 2021. Then the rest of 2021 to 2023 in the other book in there. And then I do have one currently running which is hidden somewhere," you explained, and the look on his face was nothing but pure awe.

"And I can read through all of this?"

"Yeah, all of it. It might take you some time, so you don't have to right now,"

"Oh no I am reading through it right now." he dismissed, one of the next notes after your first date containing a few capitalised words.

'21/8/19 - Right. I have news. HE KISSED ME HOLY LORD THIS MAN IS LIKE A GODSEND! It was just such a good kiss, you know? He wasn't doing it to go any further than that, it felt like he just wanted to kiss me. It was perfect. He seems perfect. I really hope he doesn't just magically become a dick, because I think that'd break my heart. I really like him, and I can see this whole thing going somewhere really good... We're going out again tomorrow before he goes away for a triple header of races, so that'll be good.'

"Our first kiss was that special to you, huh?" he teased, loving the way you blushed at him. It was just the same as it had been since he first met you. It was so nice to see that your thoughts on those moments reflected his own.

"Course it was," you replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Charles flicked through the pages some more, looking for a particular date that he had ingrained into his mind forever.

'1/9/19 - OK... So... I don't really know how to put this. Things may have, dare I say, progressed, in certain departments. We can just say that we partook in the devil's tango and the moves were perfectly blissful. One minute we were at dinner, the next we were back at his place. In his bed. Racing isn't his only talent, and that is saying something.

What can I say, it was nice to feel considered during such an activity. Again, perfectly blissful, and it was also all thanks to him. And did I forget to mention that I am officially off the market? Yes, you heard it here folks, I am officially a girlfriend! We woke up the next morning, he made me breakfast in bed and asked if I wanted to be his girlfriend and I would be a fool to say no. God I love my life.'

"That night surely was something. And I'm glad you felt considered, my love," he laughed, and you couldn't help but swat him on the chest. You knew he'd poke fun at you for what you had written in there, but that was the price of sharing something so intimate with him.

"I felt very considered, thank you very much. Always do," you winked at him, and now it was his turn to flush red. "If you thought that bit was bad, read the next day." you laughed, knowing that this could go one of two ways.

'2/9/19 - So, not much has changed from yesterday. Bar a few things. We have spent all day in Charles' apartment, mainly in bed. And a few other places, we like to switch it up. We're not all vanilla. Again, this man already knows me inside and out and it is baffling. I'll spit it out now, best sex of my life. No beating around the bush.

Currently writing this and he's fast asleep next to me. God he's so gorgeous, isn't he? You can't see him, but the possessive part of me doesn't want you to. He is such a handsome man. But he looks so peaceful, you know? I almost want to take a picture, but I don't want to feel like a creep. I might be his girlfriend, but I feel like that's a little too much, so I'll settle for a mental snapshot for now.'

"Best sex of your life, eh?" he smirked at you, the mischief in his voice not being lost on you.

"After that whole segment, that was the bit you focus on?" you sighed with no real malice.

"As much as I love the compliments, I am still a man at the end of the day. So yes, that is the bit I focus on. And don't worry, it's the best sex of my life too, my love," he chuckled, purposely trying to toy with you.

That was one thing that Charles was always relentless with, and it was teasing you. Any opportunity that presented itself, he'd be there to take the mick out of you for one thing or another. He wasn't doing it to hurt you, but he loved the reactions that you gave him.

"So is this after every date or big event?"

"Yeah, it is," you told him, and his eyes widened.

"Wow... this is so cool..." he mumbled, flicking through a couple more pages. You had stuck in all sorts, tonnes of pictures that he didn't know you had taken, the first of many tickets to the concert of your favourite band that he always took you to. One of the entries after a weekend away that the two of you had spent together caught his eye, however.

'3/11/19 - I won't lie to you, I miss him a hell of a lot more than I thought I would. He'll only be gone for the weekend, so why am I so... lost without him? All we did was spend the weekend glued to each other's sides, but now he's gone I feel so weird. Does that make sense?

Or maybe it's because he told me he loved me before he left and I didn't say it back. I don't know why I didn't say it back. I just panicked, kissed him and told him to have a safe flight. I didn't want to text him that I love him because I want him to hear me say it. I really hope I haven't messed all of this up.'

"Yeah, you did scare me pretty bad with that one. Although, I thought I had messed everything up by saying it too early. Even if I had loved you for a pretty long time before that," he sheepishly admitted.

Every word of it was the truth, Charles thought he had loved you since probably your second date, but that was definitely too soon to spill the beans and actually confess it. He had never felt fear quite like it when you hadn't said it back, and he had spent all weekend wondering whether things would be weird when he got home or not.

But he'd never forget walking out of the airport and being nearly tackled to the ground in a hug and instantly inhaling the scent of your familiar perfume. All you said was, "I love you too," before he kissed you stupid.

He didn't care that he had spent all weekend worrying anymore, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that you felt the same and now he was home for a short while. He would able to spend the weekend with you, in bed, as per usual.

"Sorry about that, that was completely my fault," you conceded, still not sure as to why you hadn't said it back. Charles would've been overjoyed, so would you. It would have saved a while weekend of distressing for the both of you.

Skipping ahead a good chunk of pages, the snippets of words that he was seeing made him smile. There was all sorts of little memories and snapshots that he would've forgotten about if he hadn't had them in perfect detail, in your writing.

'25/12/19 - Merry Christmas! I've come home to have Christmas with Mum and Dad, Charles has stayed in Monaco. Spending two weeks at home is really nice, to be honest. I do miss him, and a hell of a lot, but I'm coping.

I guess I don't need to be dependent on him, but I do want to see him on Christmas. Maybe next year, huh? I'm home for the new year as well, so I won't be able to spend that with him either, but I'm sure we've got a lot of time.'

He had missed you that Christmas and New Year, but he understood that you needed to spend it at home, just like he did. He remembered having your gifts sent over, and the surprise when you called him to thank him.

That Christmas was when you learned about Charles tendency to spoil you rotten whenever he got the chance. But he agreed with you, he knew you'd come home and there wasn't any anxiety or pressure over what might happen, since you had gotten to a point in your relationship where you were feeling stable.

Another heading caught his eye.

'15/5/20 - Charles has gotten into this little habit of streaming now that he can't race as much, and today I spotted him in a banana costume. You heard me right, a banana costume. Don't worry, I will be putting a picture in here somewhere.

When the Amazon box arrived the other day, I asked him about it and I was wondering why he was being too twitchy about it. And now I know why. Well, I don't know why he did it for the stream, but I do know that it was funny as hell.

Poor guy looked mortified when I walked in after the stream and saw him sat there looking like one of the bananas in pyjamas. I don't think I've ever seen him that embarrassed. But God do I love him.'

"Right the banana costume was not that funny," Charles pouted, sending a scowl in your direction.

"Oh it was," you laughed, even the thought of the memory triggering an oncoming fit of giggles.

"Stop laughing at me," he mumbled.

"But baby it's so funny!" you cackled, trying to contain it but failing miserably. Every time you calmed down, you looked at him and saw the scowl plastered on his face and it set you off again.

"That's it," he said, putting the book back in the box and pushing you back down against the pillows. Before you knew it, Charles was on top of you, his hands boxing you in at either side of his head.

"Not laughing so much now, are we?" he said with a slightly mocking tone, and all you could do was shake your head, still adjusting to the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

Before, it was a nostalgic innocence as you walked down memory lane together. Now, the air was charged with an electricity that only Charles seemed to be able to spark you with. "Now, the only thing I want to hear from you are those pretty sounds you make when I make you feel good, got it?" he instructed.

You nodded, looking up at him with wide eyes. He never failed to make heat pool in your stomach when he got like this, and who were you to deny a man what he wanted on his birthday - especially when you knew how good it was going to get?

"Tell me you understand, darling. Talk to me," he murmured against the skin of your neck as he leant in to press soft kisses on the area.

"Yeah, I understand," you confirmed, a little too quickly. The eagerness was practically radiating off of you, and Charles couldn't help but revel in it. He loved when you got like this, all submissive and pliable just for him.

"That's my good girl," he praised, moving his lips over your neck and shoulder, occasionally nipping at the skin and seeing how it turned red. "And you're going to let me to what I want to you, aren't you, princess?"

"Mhm, yeah," you hummed, letting him lavish your body in attention. He let out a low growl at your response, needing to have you. All of you.

Sitting back on his haunches, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, giving you a knowing smirk. "Can I?" he asked, knowing you'd say yes. Surely enough, you nodded to him as he started to pull the fabric down your legs.

And it was at this point you knew that Charles was going to have a very, very happy birthday indeed, and you were both going to have a hell of a good time.

A/N - What would we do without this man, eh? Tanti auguri to the prettiest of them all, Lord Perceval himself! Forza Ferrari, Forza Charles Leclerc.

Side note as well - Part 4 of the little Lando series (part 1, part 2, part 3) I have going on is nearly done and nearly at 10k... will be wrapping it up and whacking a part 5 and possible part 6 to it. I'll see how much more I have to go over!

|masterlist|

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bear-yawns · 1 month ago

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　𝗕𝗜𝗚 𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗢𝗡 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗢𝗡.　formula one · #f1

　　　whether the f1 grid prefers being the big spoon or little spoon when cuddling.

genres : fluff ... established relationships ... f1 grid x reader (max verstappen, yuki tsunoda, lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, ollie bearman, kimi antonelli, isack hadjar, carlos sainz, alex albon, zhou guanyu, franco colapinto included).　word count : 1k.　warnings : not proofread.　 note : ugh i think my brain melted by the end of this it was SO hard to think of how to write these without it being super repetitive and low-key i think it still is repetitive but know i tried my best </3　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

𝗠𝗔𝗫 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗡

a big spoon all the time, his arms are like your safe haven. whether in bed, on the couch, or a simple hug in the kitchen, his arms are around yours like it’s the most natural position ever. if you were really truly insistent about being the big spoon, he will attempt being the small one, but he’s not a big fan of it. you need to be in his arms, there’s simply nothing else that will satisfy his itch for physical contact quite like it.

𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗢 𝗡𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗦

he usually starts out as the big spoon, but he always ends up as the little spoon after a few minutes. there’s something so comforting about being nestled in your arms, forehead and curls nuzzling against your shoulder. is always just extremely soft in your arms, but will end up denying that he likes being a little spoon. insists he’d rather have you in his arms than the other way around even when he naturally moves to the smaller position first.

𝗜𝗦𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗛𝗔𝗗𝗝𝗔𝗥

if you asked him, he would say he’s a big spoon without skipping a beat. but in actuality he always becomes the little spoon with you, even if he doesn’t realize it. he’ll get distracted by your hand gently scratching a spot on the nape of his neck or your arms hugging him tightly. he doesn’t even really register that you’re the one spooning him after he was so adamant he was nothing but a big spoon.

𝗞𝗜𝗠𝗜 𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜

he likes being a big spoon, but it entirely depends on the situation, and how eager you are to have your hands in his curls. he will happily let you rest your arms around his waist during late night cuddle sessions, but during the day, he’s definitely going to be the big spoon. maybe a little bit of boyfriend protectiveness comes into play as well, but your waist is like a magnet for his hands. he’s always holding you like that, and will rest his chin on your shoulder too!

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗘𝗦 𝗟𝗘𝗖𝗟𝗘𝗥𝗖

charles is usually the big spoon, because it feels more natural to him. he’d definitely the type to rest his chin on your shoulder as he’s hugging you or trace little circles on your hip. whatever position you’re cuddling in, he needs to have you as close as possible to him. he loves the smell of your perfume and shampoo and it keeps him cuddled as close as possible, face buried in the joint of your neck and shoulder.

𝗬𝗨𝗞𝗜 𝗧𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗢𝗗𝗔

now yuki hates thinking of himself as the little spoon. he already gets people pointing out how small he is all the time, and admitting that he likes being cuddled up in your arms instead of taking the more “manly” position feels wrong. but he can’t deny it when he’s with you. he loves having his head rested on your chest or shoulder, legs intertwined too if possible. and maybe you also hug your arms around his waist before you go to sleep, but does it really count as a little spoon? (yes, yes it does).

𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗫 𝗔𝗟𝗕𝗢𝗡

alex is tall, making being the big spoon just make more sense. anytime he’s trying to be the little spoon, it just ends up a little awkward and only half spooning. so he’s glad that you’re both content to have him fulfil the role most nights. you fit so perfectly in his arms too! he almost doesn’t want to let you go in the morning when he wakes up with you still snuggled closely to his chest <3

𝗭𝗛𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗨𝗔𝗡𝗬𝗨

guanyu is good for whatever you want. he doesn’t mind either way! it’s comfortable to be the big spoon or little spoon depending on the situation. usually when you’re falling asleep he will be the big spoon, but regular cuddling could go either way. you like to hug his waist and rest your head against his back, which ends up in him being the little spoon a lot of the time.

𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗢 𝗖𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢

you can barely count it as spooning, since franco’s favourite way to cuddle is him entirely on top of you, or you entirely on top of him. he likes the weight of your body, and tracing little patterns on the back of your shirt while you cuddle. on the flip side, he appreciates resting his cheek on your chest or having your arms around his waist. he thinks the concept of spooning is a little redundant though. as long as you’re both cuddling, that’s all that matters. he never gives it much thought when he’s pulling you into his arms.

𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗢𝗦 𝗦𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗭

big spoon. just not a chance he’s ending up the little spoon on purpose. maybe a couple of times he’s woken up as the little spoon after tossing and turning in the night, but he’s 100% gonna fall asleep being the big spoon for you :( and he loves holding you in his arms too! his hands are meant to be around your waist and his shoulders perfectly blanket your figure— truly he has to be the big spoon. there’s just no other way when you fit so perfectly in his arms.

𝗢𝗦𝗖𝗔𝗥 𝗣𝗜𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜

big spoon usually, but he doesn’t have much of a preference. he’ll just go along with whatever you want, whether that’s to be in his arms or have him in your arms, he never questions it. he does like it when your hair is close enough to his face that he can smell your shampoo, though. he thinks it smells amazing and it definitely has him pulling you closer and hugging you tighter.

𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗡

big spoon no questions. he’s got long limbs and their purpose is to wrap around your body. he honestly doesn’t know what to do with himself when you’re trying to be the big spoon. you’ve definitely tried before and both come to the conclusion that you being the little spoon is much better. he just feels a lot more comfortable holding you. plus he likes to kiss your forehead and nose and the position gives him easy access!

taglist: @lxvemaze,, @liawleclerc,, @caffeineboi,, @divierses

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pucksandpower · 3 months ago

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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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