#oh charles you really are just like the rest of us

[helvegen-s]

midnight in paris

a Charles Leclerc one-shot

Summary: A canceled flight, a midnight rain, and two strangers crossing paths in Paris. As they wander beneath the city lights, sharing laughter, stolen glances, and unspoken truths, the night becomes a world of its own. But when morning comes, reality awaits—leaving only the question of whether fate will bring them together again.

Word count: 6.1k

Warnings: alcohol, implied sex (not explicit), abandonment

A/N: Soooo, this would be my first one-shot! I'm really happy with how it turned out—I had never written one before because I feel more comfortable with longer stories. But I absolutely loved it! I hope you enjoy it and give it lots of love! <3

masterlist

The sound of loudspeaker announcements echoed against the high ceiling of Charles de Gaulle Airport, blending with the murmur of hundreds of passengers who, like him, were stranded there without a clear destination.

"All flights have been canceled until further notice. We kindly ask passengers to contact their airlines for more information."

Charles Leclerc let out a heavy sigh, resting his hands on his hips as he stared at the large departure board, where each line turned red one by one. Canceled. Canceled. Canceled.

Fantastic.

He was in Paris for a Ferrari event and was supposed to fly to Monaco that same night. But the storm sweeping across half the continent had brought air traffic to a standstill, leaving him with only two options: remain trapped in a crowded, frustrated airport or venture into the city and find a hotel.

His assistant had already tried to book him a room somewhere, but the nearby hotels were overwhelmed.

"What if I try leaving the airport?" Charles asked, sliding a finger across his phone screen as he scrolled through transportation options. He heard his assistant sigh through his earpiece.

"Traffic is awful," his assistant replied. "There are barely any taxis available, and the trains are experiencing delays too."

Charles sighed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night in an airport chair, only to wake up with a stiff neck the next day.

"I'll try anyway. I'll let you know if I find something."

With that, he ended the call, grabbed his handbag, and wove his way through the throng of frustrated passengers.

The rain was falling in thick sheets when Charles finally stepped outside. A long line of people was waiting for taxis, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to flag one down before anyone else could.

Just as he was about to get in, the taxi driver rolled down the window.

"Sir, with this weather, there are very few taxis. I have to ask you to share if possible."

Charles frowned, about to refuse. But then he noticed a woman standing nearby, hugging herself to keep warm. Her dark coat was drenched from the rain, and though she wasn’t looking in his direction, it was obvious she was trying—unsuccessfully—to get a taxi.

For some reason, without overthinking it, Charles approached her.

"Excuse me, would you mind sharing a taxi? It’s just me—there’s room for both of us."

"Oh! Thank you, really. I was starting to think I'd shrivel up like a raisin in this rain."

Charles was caught off guard by how casually she spoke to him—the way she smiled at him so effortlessly. When she slid into the car, she gave her head a small shake, sending droplets of rain scattering from her hair.

"Thanks," she said again, not looking directly at him as she shut the door.

Charles gave a small nod, sneaking a glance at her as the taxi pulled away.

Minutes passed, and the taxi crawled through the rain-slicked streets of Paris. Droplets trickled down the windows in twisted streams, distorting the city lights outside. The driver, an older man wrapped in a thick coat, muttered in French about the traffic and the terrible weather, though neither passenger paid much attention. Now and then, the windshield lit up with the glow of a red traffic light or the headlights of another car passing too close. But inside the taxi, the quiet remained.

Charles leaned an elbow against the window, tapping his fingers absently against his knee. He stole another glance at his companion. Her profile was softly illuminated by the streetlights, and there was something about her expression—the way she watched the rain outside with a faint smile—that intrigued him. She didn’t seem annoyed by the delay or the storm, but rather… curious.

The taxi stopped at a red light, and for a moment, everything was still except for the relentless drumming of the rain. Charles took a slow breath and turned his head slightly as if about to say something—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to break the fragile bubble that surrounded them.

Finally, she was the first to speak, her voice soft but tinged with amusement.

"Did you expect your night to end like this?"

Charles let out a short laugh, still watching the fogged-up glass.

"Definitely not. But I should probably be used to last-minute changes by now."

She nodded, crossing her legs with an air of calm, as if the delay and uncertainty didn’t bother her in the slightest.

"Airports have a funny way of reminding us that, in the end, we’re not in control of much at all."

Charles turned to look at her more closely. There was something about her tone, the way she said it, that made him wonder how many canceled flights, how many changes of direction she had experienced in her life.

Another silence stretched between them as the taxi moved slowly down the avenue. Through the rain-streaked window, the Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance—a hazy reminder of the city they were stranded in.

"Where are you headed?" Charles finally asked.

She blinked, as if she had almost forgotten her own destination.

"I don’t know," she admitted with a small shrug. "My flight was canceled too, so I was going to find a hotel, but it looks like I’m out of luck."

"Yeah, same here," Charles replied, letting out another quiet laugh. "I didn’t plan on spending the night in the airport, but right now, I don’t have a better plan."

The taxi turned onto a narrower street, where the lamplights cast long shadows over the wet cobblestones. Outside, the city carried on, indifferent to their uncertainty.

She rested her forehead against the window for a few seconds before speaking again.

"Paris is different when it rains. Less perfect. More real."

Charles raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the comment.

"I never thought of it that way."

She turned her head then, meeting his gaze for the first time, her eyes catching the reflected glow of the streetlights.

"Maybe it’s because we always see it in postcards, with clear skies and golden lights. But like this… with the rain and the cold, it feels more honest."

Charles didn’t respond right away. There was something about her words that resonated with him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. He watched the city through the window, allowing himself to see what she saw.

The taxi slowed again, and after a few moments of silence, she leaned slightly toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

"What if, instead of looking for a hotel, we take a walk?" she suggested, her tone more contemplative than impulsive.

Charles looked at her in surprise, then glanced at the rain pouring outside.

"Walk?" he repeated, as if needing to process it.

She smiled, a playful glint in her eyes.

"It’s not every day you get to see Paris with empty streets and no rush. Just for a while. No maps, no plans."

Charles exhaled lightly before nodding.

"I suppose there’s nothing better to do."

She chuckled softly, handed the driver a bill, thanking him in carefully practiced French, and without another word, opened the taxi door and stepped out. Charles followed her, letting the door close behind them.

The rain greeted them with a fresh chill, and the city stretched before them, waiting to be explored.

Charles reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny umbrella, opening it swiftly. It wasn’t big enough to fully cover them both, so they had to huddle closer under the dark fabric. At first, they tried to keep a respectful distance, but the wind and the angle of the rain inevitably made their shoulders brush.

“I didn’t think we’d have to share an umbrella,” she remarked with a playful smile.

“Me neither,” Charles admitted, adjusting the umbrella’s position to shield her better. “But I guess it’s better than nothing.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, amused by his attempt to keep them dry as the rain persisted. With each step, the rain-soaked city felt more intimate, more theirs, as Paris continued revealing its secrets beneath the storm.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, they stumbled upon a small bar, its warm lights glowing invitingly, the soft sound of a saxophone drifting through the slightly open door. They exchanged a glance before stepping inside, shaking the moisture from their clothes.

The interior was cozy, with wooden tables and a small stage where a jazz band played live. They settled into a quiet corner, ordering two glasses of red wine. The warmth of the place contrasted with the cold outside, and conversation began to flow more easily as the music wrapped around them.

“I definitely didn’t expect my night to end like this,” Charles mused, staring into his glass before looking at her with a faint smile.

She swirled the wine in her hand, thoughtful.

“Sometimes, the best nights are the ones we don’t plan.”

The wine softened the edges of time. The band kept playing, the saxophone weaving notes through the air, slipping between them effortlessly. Their conversation moved with the same natural ease, as if they had forgotten what time it was.

Charles watched her from across the table, his elbow propped up, fingers idly turning his glass. He was completely captivated. There was something about the way she spoke, how she tilted her head when listening, how she filled silences without fearing them.

“So, you don’t like planning too much,” he observed, a half-smile playing on his lips.

She shrugged.

“Let’s just say I make plans, but I don’t mind changing them if something better comes along.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“And how do you decide what’s ‘something better’?”

“Sorry.” She smiled, feigning an apology. “That’s a secret.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head as he brought his glass to his lips.

“You’re hard to read.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand.

“Does that bother you?”

“It intrigues me,” he admitted, feeling the warmth of the wine mix with something deeper inside him. “I’m used to figuring people out pretty quickly.”

“Why?”

“Because in my world, reactions are everything. If you can predict what someone will do, you have the upper hand.”

She studied him in silence for a moment.

“That must be exhausting.”

Charles tilted his head.

“What?”

“Always analyzing everything.”

He let out a short breath, glancing down at his glass.

“I don’t know if I can turn it off.”

“Maybe tonight, you could try.”

She held his gaze with a subtle challenge, and Charles felt something inside him tighten, like a spring coiling. He let out a low laugh, not looking away.

“And what do you suggest?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she raised her glass and clinked it gently against his.

“To welcomed chaos,” she toasted.

Charles mirrored her, still watching her closely.

“To welcomed chaos.”

They drank together, the warm wine sliding down their throats. The music shifted, deeper, more intimate. Charles set his glass down and leaned back against the seat, studying her in the dim, flickering light.

“If you don’t like planning too much…” he said after a moment, “what’s the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

“Probably this.”

Charles let out a surprised chuckle.

“Going out to explore Paris with me?”

“Mhm.” She held his gaze with a playful glint. “And you?”

Charles tapped his fingers against the table.

“Maybe this too.”

“Wow.” She bit her lip, thoughtful. “I guess that makes us partners in crime.”

Charles rested his elbow on the table, leaning in slightly.

“Partners in crime for what?”

“For the idea that tomorrow, we could go back to our lives as if tonight never happened.”

The words lingered between them. Charles felt the weight of them, and for the first time in a long while, he realized he didn’t want something to simply disappear with the morning.

The alcohol made everything feel more real, more tangible. Or maybe it wasn’t the alcohol. Maybe it was her.

Charles nodded, a vague sense creeping in that whatever was happening between them wasn’t something that could easily be replicated. Paris, the rain, the spontaneity of the night—it all felt like it was stitched together with fragile thread, as if by dawn, the magic would unravel, and the city would return them to their separate realities.

But for now, they still had Paris.

Outside the bar, the rain was still falling, a steady whisper against the rooftops.

Charles opened his small umbrella, instinctively tilting it toward her, making sure she was covered more than him. She hesitated for just a second before stepping closer and, in a subtle motion, hooked her arm through his to stay as close as possible.

Charles felt the warmth of her body against his, the soft brush of her coat against his arm. He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.

“Better this way,” she murmured.

“No doubt,” he replied, his voice lower than necessary, as if the rain had wrapped them in their own little world.

They walked without rush, the cobblestones glistening under the streetlights. They had no real destination, but Paris had a way of leading people to unexpected places.

“You never asked my name,” she noted after a while.

Charles glanced at her.

“You didn’t ask mine either.”

“No.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but rather charged with something else… something Charles chose not to define.

“Do you prefer it this way?” he asked.

“Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone without knowing who they are.”

He nodded, as if he understood exactly what she meant. And he did. For years, he had been “Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver.” Never just “Charles.”

“And what do you do when you’re not walking around Paris with strangers?” he asked, his tone lighter.

She let out a soft laugh.

“I travel a lot. Too much, I’d say.”

“For work?”

“Mhm.”

Charles didn’t press, but he watched her with curiosity.

“Do you like it?”

She hesitated before answering.

“Yes. Sometimes it’s exhausting, but… I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Charles understood that better than he should.

“Then it must be something you love.”

“It is. And you? Do you love what you do?”

Charles let out a quiet chuckle.

“I can’t imagine my life without it.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“Then you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Charles wanted to ask her more, but before he could, they reached the edge of the Seine.

Before them, the Eiffel Tower loomed through the misty rain, its lights shimmering over the river.

“I guess it was inevitable we’d end up here,” she murmured, a half-smile playing on her lips.

Charles didn’t look at the tower, or the Seine, or the city. He looked at her.

“I guess so.”

She noticed his gaze and held it, unwavering.

The rain kept falling around them, but Charles barely felt it.

He didn’t know how long they stood there before she finally looked away, her eyes drifting to the water.

“You know, I like playing the piano when it rains.”

The confession slipped out, and Charles latched onto it like a puzzle piece.

“You play?”

“Mhm.”

“Professionally?”

“Too many details.”

“Right.”

She shot him a playful smile.

“And you? Do you have something you can’t stop doing?”

Charles smiled, because the answer was obvious.

But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he looked at the Eiffel Tower, the rain sketching shadows over the city lights, and thought that for the first time in a long while, his world didn’t revolve around a racetrack.

Not tonight.

“I suppose that’ll remain another mystery,” he said, still watching her.

She just laughed, letting the silence say the rest.

The air grew cooler as the night went on. The rain had left a damp sheen on the streets, and Charles’ umbrella remained their shared refuge as they wandered aimlessly.

"If you could play anywhere in the world, where would it be?" Charles asked, watching her with genuine curiosity.

She took her time to answer, as if she had never stopped to think about it before.

"At home," she finally said with a slight smile. "Not in a grand theater, not on a stage in front of thousands. Just at home, on a night like this, with the rain in the background."

Charles nodded slowly, as if he understood exactly what she meant.

"And you?" she asked then, turning toward him. "If you could do what you love anywhere, without anyone watching… where would it be?"

The question caught him off guard. He hadn't expected her to turn it back on him, let alone with such precision.

Charles remained silent for a moment, his gaze drifting past her to the city lights reflecting on the water.

"In Monaco," he said at last, his voice softer now. "In an old car, just for fun. No timers, no pressure, nothing at stake."

A quiet chuckle left her lips, the sound warm against the cool air.

"So, you're a driver."

Charles grinned, turning back to her with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I never said that."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him, amused.

"You didn’t have to."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain had softened to a mist, the city humming around them. Charles wondered if she had pieced together who he was, or if she was simply playing along. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Tonight, he wasn’t Charles Leclerc, the Formula 1 driver.

Tonight, he was just a man walking through Paris in the rain, standing beside someone who made the world feel a little quieter.

They kept walking until they reached a small overlook with a view of the city. The lights shimmered over the water, reflecting in golden and bluish hues.

"This place is beautiful," Charles said quietly.

"Paris always is," she replied.

She leaned against the railing, letting the night breeze tousle her hair. Charles glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noticing how the city suited her, like a stage built just for her. There was something about her that pulled him in, in a way he didn’t quite understand.

"Do you ever get scared?" he asked suddenly.

She turned her head toward him, caught off guard by the question.

"Of course," she said after a moment. "Who doesn’t?"

"You seem like someone who never allows herself to doubt."

She let out a soft laugh.

"Doubt and fear aren’t the same thing."

Charles frowned slightly, intrigued.

"Explain."

She turned, resting her back against the railing, meeting his gaze directly.

"Fear is inevitable. It’s a reflex, something you feel before you even have a choice. Doubt, on the other hand, is a decision."

Charles looked at her in silence, letting her words settle in his mind.

"So, you never doubt?"

"I doubt all the time. But only about things I know I can control."

Charles smiled, finding something unexpectedly familiar in her answer.

"You’re different from what I imagined when I saw you drenched at the airport."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And what did you imagine?"

"Someone more... distant. More unreachable."

She tilted her head, amused.

"Maybe I am."

Charles shook his head, his smile curving with a hint of mischief.

"No, you’re not."

A brief silence settled between them. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather left room for something else. Something unspoken lingering in the air between them.

The rain had stopped completely. Charles closed the umbrella and rested it against the railing, but she didn’t step away. She remained close, arms crossed over her chest, her expression caught between caution and the desire to keep exploring this conversation.

"It’s late," she murmured finally.

"It is," Charles agreed, yet neither of them moved.

The reflection of the city lights in her eyes gave them a special glow, and in that moment, Charles knew he wanted to keep listening to her. He wanted to keep deciphering what lay behind her gaze, behind her calculated words, behind the way she observed the world as if she saw stories in every corner.

"Should we head back?" she asked, still not moving.

Charles held her gaze for a long second.

"Or we could keep walking."

She let out a soft laugh but didn’t answer right away.

And Charles waited, unhurried.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t in a hurry at all.

She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something Charles couldn’t quite decipher. The night breeze carried the distant echo of a street song, the sound of a guitar and a raspy voice singing in French.

"Let’s keep walking," she said at last.

And Charles smiled.

They walked without a clear destination, simply letting the city guide them. Their conversation slowed, becoming more intimate, as if they no longer felt the need to fill every pause with words. They talked about their travels, about the places they had always wanted to visit. Charles mentioned Monaco and his love for the sea. She spoke of Vienna and the magic of visiting the Musikverein, though she didn’t reveal she had once stood on that stage as a performer.

They passed through cobbled streets, by cafés that were closed for the night, through plazas where lamplights cast long shadows. Eventually, they found themselves by the Seine again. Charles stopped and rested his hands on the railing.

"You know what’s the strangest thing about tonight?" he asked.

She leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"Tell me."

"That I know this wouldn’t have happened at any other point in my life."

She turned her head toward him, intrigued.

"Why do you say that?"

Charles looked at the water, considering how to put it into words.

"Because I always have a plan, a schedule, somewhere to be. I don’t miss flights. I don’t allow myself to miss them."

"And yet, here you are."

Charles met her gaze, finding an unspoken challenge in her expression.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Here I am."

The streetlights cast golden reflections in her hair. Charles felt his heart beat a little faster when she held his gaze without looking away, as if measuring the distance between them.

And then, without another word, she stepped closer.

He met her without hesitation.

The kiss was slow at first, almost exploratory, as if neither wanted to break the magic that had led them here. But when their lips parted just slightly, hovering between continuing or stopping, Charles made the decision for both of them and kissed her again.

This time, there was no hesitation.

It felt like the inevitable conclusion to a night that had never been a coincidence. Like a story already written, waiting to be lived.

When they pulled apart, she let out a soft, amused laugh, resting her forehead against his shoulder for a moment.

"You really shouldn’t miss flights," she murmured.

Charles smiled, his fingers intertwining with hers in an almost unconscious gesture.

"Maybe I should miss them more often."

The city kept glowing around them, indifferent to the story that had unfolded between them in a single night. It didn’t matter if, by daylight, they would return to being strangers with separate lives.

Because tonight, Paris belonged to them.

The rain was falling again over Paris when they entered the hotel room. The dim glow of the streetlights filtered through the curtains, painting golden shadows on the walls. They didn’t speak much as they crossed the threshold, but words weren’t necessary. Charles set the umbrella aside, shaking the water from his jacket, while she took a few steps forward, gazing out the window as if trying to etch the image of the rain-soaked city into her memory—still alive in the early morning hours.

The air between them was thick, charged with something that went beyond desire. It wasn’t just the pull of a fleeting night; it was the feeling of having stumbled upon something ephemeral and yet impossible to ignore. Charles approached her slowly, resting a hand on the window frame beside her. He said nothing—just looked at her, as if making sure she was really there, that the rain hadn’t blurred her into a fleeting illusion.

She was the one to close the distance, turning just enough to meet his gaze, lifting a hand to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips, as if committing him to memory through touch. Charles closed his eyes for a brief moment, leaning into her caress, and then, whatever lingering doubt had remained between them dissolved completely.

The first kiss inside the room was different from the one they had shared under the rain. Slower, more deliberate. As if they both knew they were standing at the edge of something irreversible. Charles held her by the waist, guiding her gently, letting the softness of his lips speak for him. She let herself be drawn in, threading her fingers through his damp hair, feeling the way their bodies recognized each other in the dim light.

Their wet clothes fell away naturally, unhurriedly. Their skin met in the warm darkness of the room, exploring with the reverence of two strangers who, for one night, had decided to forget everything that existed outside those four walls. There were no questions, no promises. Only the silent language of fingers tracing invisible paths over bare skin, of breathless sighs, of heartbeats finding rhythm in the intimacy of a Parisian night.

When dawn began to timidly peek through the windows, Charles felt the weight of exhaustion settle over his body—but there was something else, something light and indescribable, lingering between exhilaration and peace. He drifted off with the certainty that she would still be there when he woke up, that when he opened his eyes, he would find her beside him, her head resting on his pillow, her lips still curled in a sleepy smile.

But when the golden sunlight finally filled the room, Charles woke up alone.

There was no trace of her. The space beside him in bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. No note, no lingering perfume to mark her presence. As if she had never been there at all.

For a moment, he lay in silence, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the absence. Then, he exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow, closing his eyes.

Paris had been a dream. And she, its most unforgettable mystery.

Life went on.

Charles returned to his routine of constant travel, to circuits repeating in an endless cycle. The adrenaline of Formula 1 filled his days, and on the surface, everything seemed the same.

But when it rained…

When it rained, something in him stopped.

The sound of raindrops against the windows of his hotel in any city in the world immediately transported him back to that night in Paris. To her laughter under the umbrella. To the way her hand had slid into his without thinking too much about it. To the warmth of her lips in the early morning hours.

They didn’t speak. They never exchanged names or numbers.

And yet, she had never stopped being there.

On the other side of Europe, in a different city every week, she lived a similar story. Her days were marked by rehearsals, by packed auditoriums, by the perfection of every note played on her piano. The life of a solo concert pianist allowed no respite.

But when it rained…

When it rained, her hands hovered over the keys a second longer than usual.

Thinking about the only time she had felt that a night needed no music other than the sound of the city and the voice of a stranger.

Zandvoort – Dutch Grand Prix

It was just another night in Zandvoort, after a day of practice sessions. Charles was leaving the paddock, his mind still occupied with strategies and lap times. The hotel wasn’t far, so he decided to walk instead of waiting for the team car.

That’s when he saw her.

Or rather, he saw her image on a poster, in the middle of one of the city’s avenues.

Not her name. Not a grand advertisement.

Just her face, in a black-and-white photograph, with a piano slightly blurred in the background.

The name of the concert hall and the time.

That was all he needed.

By the time Charles arrived at the theater in the center of Amsterdam, the rain had already begun to fall. He shook the water from his hair before entering and bought a ticket at the entrance without even asking how full the venue was. He just needed to see her, to make sure he hadn’t imagined everything.

The concert had already started when he found his seat.

The stage was elegant yet simple. A black grand piano occupied the center, illuminated by a single beam of light. And there she was.

Charles held his breath.

There was no doubt. It was her.

The pianist’s fingers glided over the keys with hypnotic mastery. She played with her eyes closed, completely immersed in the melody, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

And yet, when the piece ended, she opened her eyes and looked at the audience.

And she saw him.

There, among hundreds of strangers, was the guy from Paris. Soaked from the rain, his heart pounding in his chest.

The seconds stretched into eternity.

And then, she smiled.

A small smile, almost imperceptible.

But enough.

Charles remained in his seat even as the rest of the audience began to rise and leave the theater. He rubbed his face, trying to gather his thoughts. What was he supposed to do now?

When he finally stood up, he searched for her. She wasn’t on stage. She wasn’t in the hall. He rushed toward the theater exit, weaving through the lobby in the hope of spotting her in the crowd. But there was no trace of her.

He discreetly asked a staff member, but the response was simple and disappointing: She left right away, she had another engagement tonight.

Charles exhaled, frustrated. He hadn’t thought about what would happen next, but part of him had assumed he would see her, that they would talk. But no, the mysterious pianist was already gone.

He stepped out of the theater and into the rain, light but persistent. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he buried his hands in his pockets and walked back to his hotel in silence. Tomorrow, he had to focus on the race, on the championship.

But for the first time in a long while, Formula 1 wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

She had wanted to go out after the concert, to breathe in the Amsterdam night air and lose herself in the city. But Marie, her assistant, had other plans for her.

"The gala is in twenty minutes. You need to be there, you know that."

"Marie…" she tried to protest.

"No excuses. The sponsors expect to see you. And we can’t afford for you to seem distracted."

She sighed, with no choice but to comply.

An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand and a rehearsed smile on her face, she listened to conversations about contracts, upcoming tours, and collaborations. But her mind was elsewhere. In the concert hall. In the eyes of the stranger who had shared that night in Paris with her.

She hadn’t recognized him at first. But something about him felt familiar.

Now that she had a moment to think, she tried to recall more details—his way of looking at her, the slight tilt of his head as he listened to her play, as if he were deciphering something.

And then, in the middle of a dull conversation about classical music and funding, she heard his name.

"I think I saw Charles Leclerc at the concert tonight."

Her attention sharpened instantly on the two people speaking nearby.

"The driver?" someone else asked.

"Yes, he was in the audience. I saw him when the hall was filling up. Pretty discreet, but it was him."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt so dumb. Of course!

Charles Leclerc, the driver.

Now everything made sense.

She felt the sudden urge to leave, to find him. But it was too late.

She forced herself to stay at the gala long enough that no one would notice her impatience, and as soon as she could, she excused herself and returned to her hotel. There, she looked up the Formula 1 calendar and bought a last-minute ticket.

Charles moved almost on autopilot through the paddock, greeting engineers, signing the occasional cap, adjusting his race suit as he walked to his garage. The constant hum of Formula 1 surrounded him—conversations, tools, roaring engines in the distance—but his mind was still trapped in the night before. In the theater. In the music. In the fleeting image of her on stage.

The fine rain had returned, a mere veil of moisture hanging in the air. He ran a hand over his neck, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had lingered since he left the concert hall.

And then he saw her.

At first, it was just a shadow in the crowd. A movement amidst the chaos of the paddock, a silhouette that didn’t quite belong in this world of fireproof suits and sponsor logos.

Then, the details.

Her hair styled elegantly, just like that night in Paris. The sunglasses that hid her expression, but not the faint curve of her lips, barely noticeable.

Time slowed.

Charles stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. Something warm spread through him, a wave of surprise and recognition that nearly stole his breath.

It was her.

It was really her.

She stopped too.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They didn’t speak. They just looked at each other, caught in that precise moment when coincidence stopped being coincidence.

The air between them crackled with electricity, with all the words left unsaid, with all the unanswered questions.

She lowered her sunglasses slowly, letting her eyes meet his completely.

And Charles felt the ground vanish beneath his feet.

"I couldn’t leave you wondering," she murmured, her voice soft but firm, with that mischievous tone he had heard that night in Paris, under the rain.

Something clicked inside him, like the perfect note at the end of a melody.

He exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"You came to see the race."

"Or maybe I just wanted to check if you were real."

He tilted his head, studying her.

"And?" he asked, his voice lower, more intimate.

She smiled, her gaze full of secrets he had yet to decipher.

"I’m still not entirely convinced."

Charles laughed—a genuine, liberating sound.

The world around them kept moving—mechanics rushing, engines roaring, teammates watching them with evident curiosity—but for Charles, all of it faded into the background.

Because she was there.

Because against all logic, against all odds, fate had brought them back to the same place once again.

And deep down, he knew it.

Their story wasn’t over yet.

Charles still couldn’t believe she was standing there. A part of him feared she was just an illusion, that at any moment she would disappear into the paddock crowd, just like she had that night in Paris.

Yet, she kept smiling with that enigmatic calm, as if this were nothing more than a coincidence and not some invisible force pulling them back together.

Charles wetted his lips, feeling the urgent need to make sure that this time, she wouldn’t slip away before he could reach her.

"Stay," he said, without thinking too much. His voice was lower, more personal. "After the race. Don’t leave without saying goodbye… like in Paris."

She blinked, surprised by his request. Then, she tilted her head slightly, wearing that same mischievous expression he remembered.

"I don’t usually repeat the same trick twice."

Charles let out a brief, almost relieved laugh.

"I’m glad to hear that."

She turned her head a little, letting the humid breeze ruffle a few loose strands of her hair. Looking up, she watched the cloudy sky and the fine drizzle falling over them.

"It’s raining again," she murmured. "Seems like fate has a peculiar sense of humor."

Charles studied her, his smile softening.

"Or maybe the rain is a sign."

She looked at him then, her eyes meeting his with silent intensity.

The sounds of the paddock still buzzed around them, the race loomed on the horizon, but for a moment, it was just the two of them, standing under the drizzle, in a world where coincidences no longer felt like coincidences.

"Then, I’ll see you after the race, pianist." Charles' voice dropped a note, testing the nickname with satisfaction.

She let out a small laugh, stepping back before turning gracefully.

"See you after the race, driver."

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd.

But this time, Charles knew it wasn’t a goodbye.

[valyrfia]

charles apparently happily scurrying to talk to a camera when max asks him to without a SINGLE ferrari PR person in sight? YEARS of pr training just all undone like that in a single second? let’s not lose the plot here charles is down JUST AS BAD