i saw your requests were open and was wondering if you would ever write something where the drivers are asked about the bare minimum vs princess treatment and charles thinks everything is the bare minimum because he's always giving his girlfriend the princess treatment
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: none, pure fluff, established relationship, romantic Charles
Summary: When a viral media trend asks about princess treatment, Charles Leclerc leaves everyone stunned by proving that completely spoiling you is just his daily bare minimum.
Requested: Yes/ @tonyspep
Author's note: Charles is truly the ultimate dream boyfriend. I really hope this story brings you so much joy, enjoy xx
The sun is exceptionally bright over the paddock in Budapest, baking the asphalt until the air shimmers with heat waves. It is Thursday, the designated media day, and the usual hum of activity fills the space between the team hospitalities. Engineers walk briskly with laptops under their arms, mechanics in short sleeves wheel tire stacks across the hot ground, and fans crowd the barriers near the entrance, hoping for an autograph or a quick selfie.
You are sitting in the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Ferrari hospitality building, nursing a cold glass of lemonade. Through the glass window, you can see the hustle and bustle of the paddock, but inside, the temperature is perfectly cool. Your phone rests on the wooden table, occasionally lighting up with notifications, but you are mostly enjoying the quiet moment before the chaos of the race weekend truly begins.
Outside, near the media pen, a popular social media creator working with the Formula One digital team is holding a microphone. They are filming a quick fire segment with the drivers, a lighthearted video meant to break up the serious technical talk of downforce and tire degradation. The topic of the day is a viral trend that has been circulating online, the debate between what constitutes the bare minimum in a relationship versus what qualifies as princess treatment.
Pierre Gasly is the first to be stopped. He stands with his sunglasses perched on his nose, a smirk playing on his lips as the interviewer explains the concept. Pierre laughs, shaking his head, and says, “The bare minimum is remembering her birthday and texting her when I land. Princess treatment is taking her to a nice dinner in Paris and letting her choose the music in the car.”
Next is Carlos Sainz, who leans against the barrier with an easy, confident posture. He listens to the question, rubs his chin thoughtfully, and offers his own perspective. “The bare minimum is making sure there is food in the fridge when she comes over. Princess treatment is cooking my special golf tournament victory paella for her and opening the car door every single time.”
Then, the interviewer spots Charles. He is walking back from a technical briefing, his red team shirt pristine, his hair slightly messy from the humidity. He has his hands in his pockets, but when he sees the microphone, he stops with his characteristic polite smile. The camera adjusts to focus on his face, capturing the bright green of his eyes and the dimple that appears when he greets the interviewer.
“Charles, we are asking the drivers about a popular concept today,” the interviewer says, holding the microphone closer to him. “We want to know your thoughts on the bare minimum versus princess treatment in a relationship. What do you think belongs in each category?”
Charles blinks, his brow furrowing slightly in genuine confusion. He tilts his head, digesting the words. “The bare minimum versus princess treatment,” he repeats, his accent thick and soft. “What do you mean by this?”
“Well,” the interviewer explains, smiling at his earnestness, “the bare minimum is the basic standard of how you should treat your partner, just to keep the relationship going. Princess treatment is going above and beyond, doing the extra, highly romantic things to make her feel incredibly special and spoiled.”
Charles nods slowly, but the confusion does not leave his face. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, thinking about it. “Okay, but, for me, I do not understand where the line is. Because, if you love someone, is everything not just the bare minimum?”
The interviewer pauses, caught off guard by his response. “What do you mean by that, Charles?”
“Like,” Charles begins, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his point, “if she is tired after a long flight, and you run a warm bath for her, put her favorite bath oils in, and have her pajamas waiting, is that not just normal? You want her to feel relaxed because you love her. That is just the bare minimum, no?”
The interviewer stares at him, their smile widening in disbelief. “Charles, most people would consider running a fully prepared bath with heated pajamas to be very high level princess treatment.”
Charles shakes his head, looking truly perplexed. “No, no, that is just being a good boyfriend. Or, like, when she is sleeping, and you wake up earlier to go to the bakery to buy the warm croissants and the specific orange juice she likes, and you bring it to her in bed so she does not have to step on the cold floor. Is that not just what you do? Why is that considered extra?”
“That is absolutely princess treatment, Charles,” the interviewer says, laughing.
“I do not agree,” Charles says, a soft laugh escaping him as well, though he is entirely serious. “For me, that is the base. If you do not do these things, then why are you in a relationship? Princess treatment, I think, would be something much bigger, like building a whole castle for her or buying her an island. But doing the little things every day to make her life easier and more beautiful, that is just the standard. It is the bare minimum.”
The interviewer shakes their head, clearly delighted by the goldmine of content they have just recorded. “I think every person watching this is going to agree that your standards are very different from the rest of the world, Charles. Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, offering a polite wave to the camera before continuing his walk back to the Ferrari hospitality.
Inside the building, your phone buzzes violently. It is a text message from one of your close friends, containing a link to the Formula One social media account. They have uploaded the clip almost instantly, knowing it would gather millions of views within minutes. You tap the link, holding the phone to your ear to block out the low murmur of the hospitality staff.
You watch the video play out. You see Pierre’s cheeky grin, Carlos’s confident shrug, and then Charles appears on the screen. As you listen to him speak, a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest. You cannot help the soft smile that spreads across your lips. He spoke with such absolute sincerity, with no intention of showing off or looking like the perfect boyfriend. He truly, deeply believes that pampering you is simply the baseline of existence.
The glass door of the hospitality suite slides open, and a draft of warm air enters before the air conditioning quickly corrects it. Charles walks in, scanning the room until his eyes land on you. His expression instantly softens, the slight tension in his shoulders melting away the moment he sees your face. He walks over to your table, pulling out the chair next to you and sinking into it with a quiet sigh of relief.
“Hi,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your temple. He smells of the warm summer air, a hint of his expensive cologne, and the faint, clean scent of the Ferrari garage. “How are you? Is the AC cold enough in here? Do you need me to get you another drink?”
You look at him, your heart swelling with affection. You turn your phone screen toward him, showing the frozen frame of his face on the video. “I am doing wonderful, Charles. But I think you have just set the expectations for every partner in the world incredibly high.”
Charles looks at the screen, then back up at you, his cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. “Ah, they uploaded it already? I was just answering the question. I do not understand why the interviewer was looking at me like I was speaking a different language.”
“Because, Charles,” you say, reaching out to slide your hand into his, “what you described is what most people dream of receiving once a year on an anniversary. You do those things for me every single day.”
He squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the back of your knuckles. “But that is my point. You deserve to have those things every day. Why would I wait for an anniversary to make you feel loved? It does not make sense to me.”
You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling the solid, comforting warmth of his body. “You are ridiculous, you know that?”
“Maybe,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “But I am only ridiculous for you.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of briefings and team meetings for Charles, but he never fails to check in on you. Every time he passes the hospitality suite, he looks through the glass, catches your eye, and gives you a quick, reassuring wink. When he finally finishes his duties for the day, the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of orange, pink, and purple.
You walk together to the car park, his arm draped casually over your shoulders, shielding you from the lingering crowds of fans and photographers. He guides you to the passenger side of the rental car, opening the door for you and waiting until you are safely settled inside before closing it with a gentle click. He jogs around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel and immediately adjusting the air conditioning so it blows directly toward you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning the key in the ignition. “I found a small, quiet Italian restaurant about thirty minutes outside the city. It is away from the main tourist areas, so we will not be bothered. I already called them to make sure they have that specific pasta dish you liked when we were in Rome.”
You look at his profile as he backs the car out of the parking space. He does it so casually, as if researching a restaurant, finding a specific dish you mentioned offhand months ago, and calling ahead to ensure they can make it is just a standard Tuesday task.
“You did that today?” you ask, your voice soft. “Between your technical meetings and the media sessions?”
“Of course,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigates the paddock exit. “You said last week that you were craving that specific tomato and burrata sauce. I wanted to make sure you could have it tonight. It took me two minutes to call them, it is nothing.”
You shake your head, a fond laugh escaping you. “Charles, that is exactly what the interviewer was talking about. That is princess treatment.”
“No,” he insists, a stubborn but playful pout forming on his lips. “That is just me wanting my girlfriend to eat a good dinner because she had to sit in a hot paddock all day. It is the bare minimum, darling.”
The drive to the restaurant is peaceful, filled with the quiet hum of the radio and the comfortable silence that only comes from years of knowing someone inside out. Charles drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console, his palm facing upward, waiting. You place your hand in his, and he immediately wraps his fingers around yours, bringing your hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles before resting it back down.
When you arrive at the restaurant, it is exactly as he described, a charming, rustic building tucked away in a quiet village, surrounded by lush green hills. The owner greets Charles with a warm smile, clearly recognizing him but treating him with the quiet respect of an old friend. He leads you both to a private table in the corner of an outdoor terrace, lit by string lights that glow softly in the gathering dusk.
As you sit down, Charles immediately pulls your chair out for you, waiting until you are comfortable before taking his own seat. He takes the menu from the waiter but does not even look at his own side, instead focusing entirely on helping you choose.
“They have the fresh truffles today,” he notes, pointing to a section of the menu. “I know you love truffles, but only when they are shaved fresh, not the oil. I can ask the chef to make sure he only uses the fresh ones for your dish.”
“Charles, please, just order what you want,” you laugh, though your heart is melting. “You do not have to micromanage the kitchen for me.”
“I am not micromanaging,” he says, his green eyes reflecting the warm glow of the string lights. “I am just making sure it is perfect for you. If it is not perfect, then there is no point.”
The waiter returns, and Charles places the order in fluent, polite Italian, making sure to specify your preferences exactly as he promised. Once the waiter leaves, Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and looking at you with an intensity that always makes your breath catch, no matter how long you have been together.
“What?” you ask, feeling a warmth creep up your neck.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, a soft, contented smile on his face. “I am just happy. It feels like we have not had a quiet moment like this in weeks. The triple header was so busy, and I felt bad that I could not spend as much time with you as I wanted.”
“Charles, we live together,” you remind him gently. “We see each other every day.”
“Yes, but seeing each other while I am running between meetings or falling asleep from exhaustion is not the same,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer register. “I want to actually be present with you. I want to listen to how your day was, what you are thinking about, what is making you happy. That is what matters.”
You reach across the table, squeezing his hand. “You are always present, Charles. Even when you are exhausted, you still manage to make me feel like the only person in the room.”
He looks down at your joined hands, his expression softening further. “I hope so. Because that is my job. If I cannot do that, then I am failing.”
As the evening progresses, the food arrives, and it is spectacular. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the tomato sauce rich and sweet, topped with a generous mound of creamy burrata that melts into the dish. Charles watches your reaction as you take your first bite, waiting with bated breath until you let out a soft sigh of appreciation.
“It is amazing,” you tell him, and he grins, looking incredibly proud of himself, as if he had personally cooked the meal himself.
Throughout the dinner, he continues to take care of you in ways that have become second nature to him. He notices the moment your water glass is half empty and immediately refills it. When a cool evening breeze sweeps across the terrace, causing you to shiver slightly, he is already standing up, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and draping it over yours. It is still warm from his body, smelling deeply of him, and you wrap it tightly around yourself, feeling safe and incredibly cherished.
You watch him as he talks about his qualifying strategy for the upcoming weekend, his eyes lighting up with the passion he has for racing. You think about how easily he balances these two sides of his life, the fierce, uncompromising competitor on the track, and the incredibly gentle, attentive partner off it. To the world, he is Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Scuderia Ferrari, a man who tames beasts of machinery at three hundred kilometers per hour. But to you, he is the boy who worries if the floor is too cold for your bare feet.
After dinner, he pays the bill before you can even reach for your purse, brushing off your attempt to split it with a gentle click of his tongue. “Do not be silly,” he says, guiding you out of the restaurant. “I took you out. It is my treat.”
On the drive back to the hotel, the fatigue of the long day finally begins to catch up with you. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you find yourself leaning your head back against the headrest, watching the streetlights flicker past in a rhythmic pattern.
When the car comes to a stop at a red light, Charles reaches over, gently adjusting the angle of your seat so you can recline more comfortably. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out a small, soft travel blanket that he always keeps in the car, specifically because he knows you get cold easily on night drives. He drapes it over your lap, tucking the edges in with a tenderness that makes your eyes prickle with happy tears.
“Sleep, darling,” he whispers, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet cabin of the car. “I will wake you up when we get to the hotel.”
You close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you to sleep, feeling completely wrapped in his love. To Charles, this is just another Thursday night. To him, this is the bare minimum. But to you, it is a love so grand, so thoughtful, and so deep that you know you will never have to doubt your worth ever again.
The next morning, the reality of a race weekend hits with full force. Friday practice is always a intense affair, filled with data analysis, track walk discussions, and the constant pressure to find the perfect setup for the car. The paddock is crowded with VIP guests, sponsors, and media crews, all vying for a moment of the drivers' time.
You spend the morning in the Ferrari garage, wearing your team headset, listening to the radio chatter between Charles and his race engineer, Bryan. Charles’s voice over the radio is calm, analytical, and sharp. He is demanding the absolute limit from the car, describing the behavior of the tires with clinical precision.
“The rear is still too loose in turn four,” his voice crackles through your headset. “We need to adjust the differential on the entry. I am losing too much time trying to catch the slide.”
Watching him through the garage monitors, you see him flying down the main straight, his red car a blur of speed and precision. He looks like a completely different person from the man who was tucking a blanket around your legs just a few hours ago. Here, in his element, he is focused, intense, and unyielding.
When the first practice session ends, Charles climbs out of the car, his face flushed and covered in sweat. He removes his helmet and balaclava, running a hand through his damp hair as he immediately begins discussing the data with his engineers. He is surrounded by a circle of men in red shirts, all pointing at laptop screens and telemetry charts.
Despite the intensity of the moment, the second Charles spots you standing near the back of the garage, his eyes lock onto yours. He pauses mid-sentence, giving you a quick, reassuring nod and a soft smile that is meant only for you. The engineers do not notice, but you do. It is a tiny, silent anchor that connects him to you, even in the middle of his chaotic professional world.
During the break between practice sessions, Charles has to attend a quick sponsor meet and greet in the Ferrari hospitality courtyard. You walk with him, keeping a respectful distance as his PR manager guides him through the crowd.
As Charles stands on the small stage, answering questions about the weekend’s prospects, you notice Carlos walking toward you, a amused grin on his face. He leans against the railing next to you, crossing his arms.
“So,” Carlos says, his voice low so the nearby fans cannot hear. “I saw the video of Charles yesterday. The whole paddock is talking about it.”
You laugh, looking at Carlos. “Oh, really? What are they saying?”
“They are saying he has ruined it for the rest of us,” Carlos chuckles, shaking his head. “The mechanics are teasing him, telling him he needs to start carrying our bags too if that is his standard of the bare minimum. My girlfriend texted me this morning, asking why I have never run a bath for her with heated pajamas waiting.”
“To be fair, Carlos,” you say playfully, “your golf paella does sound pretty impressive.”
“It is impressive,” Carlos defends himself, grinning. “But Charles, he is on another level. He does not even realize what he is doing. He is just naturally like that. It is actually a bit annoying how perfect he is.”
You look back at the stage, where Charles is currently laughing at a joke made by the host. He looks relaxed, charming, and entirely at ease. “He really does not think it is anything special. That is the thing. He genuinely believes he is just doing the basic requirements of a relationship.”
“That is because he is completely crazy about you,” Carlos says, his tone softening into a genuine, warm smile. “We all see it. The way he looks at you when you are not paying attention, the way he worries about you. He has always been a romantic, but with you, it is different. You are his whole world, and he wants to make sure his world is perfect.”
Your heart flutters at Carlos’s words. You look back at Charles, who has just finished his stage duties. He thanks the host, steps down from the stage, and immediately makes a direct line through the crowd toward you. He ignores the sponsors trying to get his attention, his focus entirely on getting back to your side.
“Are you okay?” he asks the moment he reaches you, his hand naturally finding the small of your back, guiding you away from the crowd. “Is the sun too hot out here? We can go inside.”
“I am fine, Charles,” you assure him, looking up at him. “Carlos was just telling me how you have ruined the standards for every other driver in the paddock.”
Charles looks at Carlos, who is still standing nearby with a smirk. “Do not listen to him,” Charles says, shaking his head. “Carlos is just lazy. He wants to do the bare minimum of the bare minimum.”
“Hey,” Carlos protests, laughing as he walks away. “I heard that, Leclerc. I am a very romantic man.”
Charles rolls his eyes playfully, then turns his full attention back to you. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, chilled bottle of water, pressing it into your hands. “Here. You need to stay hydrated. The paddock is very warm today, and I do not want you getting a headache.”
You take the water, staring at him with a mixture of amusement and deep affection. “Charles, did you seriously carry a cold water bottle in your pocket during a sponsor Q&A just to give it to me?”
He looks at you, his expression entirely innocent. “Well, yes. I knew you did not have a drink, and it is hot. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because,” you say, stepping closer to him and resting your hands on his chest, “you are incredibly sweet. And yes, this is also princess treatment.”
“It is just a bottle of water, darling,” he says, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate whisper as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close despite the busy paddock surrounding you. “If caring about your health and making sure you are comfortable is princess treatment, then the world has very low standards. I will always take care of you. It is not a chore, it is my favorite part of the day.”
You lean up on your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He responds instantly, his grip on your waist tightening slightly, his lips warm and gentle against yours. When you pull back, his eyes are bright, a beautiful shade of green in the summer sun, looking at you with a devotion that leaves you completely breathless.
The weekend continues to fly by in a whirlwind of speed and adrenaline. Saturday qualifying is a tense affair, with Charles securing a brilliant front row start, placing his Ferrari in second position for Sunday’s race. The paddock is ecstatic, the Ferrari garage buzzing with energy and anticipation.
On Sunday morning, the atmosphere in the paddock is electric. The grandstands are packed with fans wearing red, waving flags and cheering as the drivers make their way to the track for the pre-race preparations.
You are in Charles’s driver room, a small, private space inside the Ferrari hospitality building where he prepares before the race. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowds outside. Charles is sitting on the physio table, his eyes closed as his trainer, Andrea, guides him through a series of physical warm ups and reaction training.
You sit quietly in the corner, watching him focus. He is in his zone, his mind entirely locked onto the race ahead. He is visualizing the track, the corners, the start, the strategy. His breathing is steady, his expression serious and determined.
When Andrea finishes the session and leaves the room to give Charles a few minutes of quiet before the driver parade, Charles opens his eyes. He looks at you, the intense, competitive gaze instantly softening into something warm and tender. He steps off the table, walking over to where you are sitting.
He kneels down in front of your chair, placing his hands on your knees, looking up at you. “Are you nervous?” he asks softly.
You laugh gently, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair. “I should be asking you that. You are the one driving a rocket ship at three hundred kilometers per hour in an hour.”
“I am not nervous,” he says, his voice calm and confident. “I know what I have to do. But I want to make sure you are okay. The grid is going to be very crowded today, very chaotic. If you do not want to come down to the grid, you can stay here or watch from the garage where it is quieter.”
“I want to be there with you,” you tell him, leaning down to press your forehead against his. “I want to see you start.”
He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if drawing strength from your presence. “Okay. But stay close to my PR team. I do not want anyone bumping into you. And promise me you will wear your ear protection the entire time.”
“I promise, Charles,” you say, smiling at his constant protectiveness. Even right before the most intense race of his life, his main concern is still your safety and comfort.
The race itself is a masterpiece of strategy and skill. From the moment the five red lights go out, Charles drives with a fierce determination. He manages his tires perfectly, defending his position against attacks from behind while keeping pressure on the leader. The tension in the Ferrari garage is palpable, everyone staring at the telemetry screens, holding their breath with every corner.
When Charles finally crosses the finish line, securing a brilliant second place podium finish, the garage erupts into cheers and applause. You jump up, hugging the team members around you, your heart racing with pride and relief. He did it. He drove a flawless race, securing a crucial result for the team.
You make your way down to the pit lane, waiting near the podium area where the top three cars park. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and hot engines. The crowd below the podium is a sea of red, chanting Charles’s name, their voices echoing through the grandstands.
Charles climbs out of his car, standing on the nose cone and raising his arms in triumph, soaking in the cheers of the tifosi. He looks exhausted but incredibly happy. He jumps down, hugging his mechanics, before his eyes immediately begin searching the crowd.
The moment he spots you standing behind the barrier, his face lights up with a brilliant, genuine smile. He jogs over, ignoring the media cameras pointing at him, and reaches over the barrier to pull you into a sweaty, adrenaline fueled hug.
He presses his face into your neck, holding you tightly. “I did it,” he whispers against your skin, his heart beating rapidly against your chest.
“You were amazing, Charles,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, not caring about the sweat or the dirt on his race suit. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”
He pulls back slightly, looking at you with a gaze so full of love and pride that it completely eclipses the thousands of fans cheering behind him. He presses a firm, passionate kiss to your lips, a public declaration of his devotion that is captured by every camera in the pit lane.
The podium ceremony is a beautiful blur of champagne, trophies, and national anthems. You watch from below, tears of happiness pricking your eyes as you see him stand on the podium, holding his trophy high. He catches your eye from the podium, pointing the trophy toward you with a proud wink.
Once the media duties, post race interviews, and team debriefs are finally completed, the paddock begins to quiet down. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the empty space. The exhaustion of the intense weekend is finally setting in, and you can see the fatigue in the slump of Charles’s shoulders as he walks back to his driver room.
You are waiting for him, having already packed up his personal belongings so he does not have to worry about it. When he walks through the door, he looks at the packed bags, then at you, a soft, weary smile appearing on his face.
“You packed everything?” he asks, his voice tired but incredibly sweet.
“I wanted to make sure you did not have to do anything when you finished,” you say, walking over to him. “You must be exhausted.”
He doesn't say a word. Instead, he simply steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder, letting his entire weight lean against you. You wrap your arms around his back, holding him up, gently running your fingers through his hair.
“Thank you,” he murmurs against your shoulder, his voice muffled. “You are too good to me.”
“I am just doing the bare minimum, Charles,” you tease gently, using his own words.
He lets out a soft, tired chuckle, his chest vibrating against yours. “No, that is princess treatment. You taking care of me when I am tired, that is extra. For me, taking care of you is the standard, but you taking care of me, that is a gift.”
You shake your head, amazed by his logic. Even when you are the one pampering him, he still manages to turn it around so that you are the one who deserves the credit.
“Let’s go home, Charles,” you say softly. “You need a proper rest.”
“Yes,” he agrees, pulling back to look at you, his eyes soft and full of a quiet, peaceful happiness. “Let’s go home.”
The drive back to his apartment in Monaco is quiet, the night sky clear and filled with stars. When you finally arrive, the apartment is peaceful, a sanctuary away from the high pressure world of Formula One.
Charles immediately walks into the bedroom, dropping his bags on the floor, and turns to look at you. “You go take a shower first,” he says, already walking toward the bathroom. “I will prepare the bed.”
By the time you finish your shower and walk into the bedroom, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, you find the room transformed. The main lights are off, replaced by the warm, gentle glow of the bedside lamps. The covers of the bed are pulled back, perfectly neat and inviting.
And on the nightstand next to your side of the bed, there is a fresh, cold glass of water, your favorite lip balm, and a small, sweet note written in his messy, elegant handwriting.
*Thank you for being my strength this weekend. I love you.*
You look at the note, your heart aching with a sweetness that is almost overwhelming. You turn to see Charles walking into the bedroom, having just showered in the guest bathroom. He is wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, his hair still damp, looking incredibly relaxed and beautiful.
He looks at you holding the note, a soft, slightly shy smile appearing on his face. “Is it okay? I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed before we went to sleep.”
You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his bare waist, looking up into his green eyes. “Charles, you are incredible. You just drove a seventy lap race, stood on a podium, survived a massive media storm, and the first thing you do when we get home is make sure I have water and a sweet note by my bed.”
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head. “But that is my point, darling,” he says, his voice a low, soothing purr in the quiet of the bedroom. “This is not extra. This is just how I love you. It takes no effort to write a note or pour a glass of water. It is the absolute bare minimum of what you deserve.”
You look up at him, shaking your head with a fond, defeated smile. “I don't think I will ever convince you that you are a hopeless romantic, will I?”
“Never,” he whispers, a beautiful, dimpled grin spreading across his face. “Because to me, a hopeless romantic is someone who does these things only sometimes. I want to do them for you every single second of every single day. I want you to always feel like a princess, not because it is a special treatment, but because to me, it is just the only way to live.”
He leans down, pressing a slow, deep, incredibly tender kiss to your lips. It is a kiss that speaks of promises kept, of a future shared, and of a love that knows no limits.
When he pulls back, he gently guides you toward the bed, tucking you in under the soft sheets before climbing in next to you. He pulls you into his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.
As you fall asleep, wrapped in his warmth and his love, you realize that Carlos was right. Charles Leclerc has completely ruined the standards of relationships for the rest of the world. But as you listen to his steady breathing, feeling his arms hold you secure, you know you wouldn't change a single thing. To him, it might be the bare minimum, but to you, it is the most beautiful, extraordinary love you could have ever dreamed of.
