Loved your first fic!!!! I have to request one, it was so good. I was thinking: reader and Charles are out, reader starts complaining about how her heels are hurting her so Charles tells her to take them off and offers to piggyback her. Maybe we could also make reader kinda insecure about her weight and thinks Charles wouldn’t be able to carry her for the whole walk, but he does effortlessly, then sweetly scolds her when he finds out she was trying to avoid it because she was being paranoid about herself!
i’m so glad you loved my first little fic — truly had me giggling and kicking my feet reading your comments and requests.
this is fic number two (!!) and i’m proudly obsessed with it. it’s soft, a little vulnerable, and full of barefoot-in-love energy + charles being a golden retriever boyfriend with emotional depth™️. i hope it makes your heart ache in the best way. 🥹
The streets of Monaco were glowing—golden lamplight on white stone, the sea humming somewhere in the background. People strolled by in their evening best, the clink of champagne glasses floating from every direction. It was one of those nights that felt cinematic.
Because your heels—those gorgeous, evil little monsters—were destroying you.
You tried to hide it, tried to walk like your feet weren’t throbbing. But Charles had sharp eyes. He could read you with terrifying accuracy, especially when you were trying not to make a fuss.
You hated fuss. And attention. Especially about your body.
Charles, on the other hand, lived for you to tell him when something was wrong so he could fix it in record time and make you feel like royalty. But tonight, you stayed quiet.
He’d had such a long day. The dinner had been important. You didn’t want to ruin the end of it by whining about your dumb shoe choice.
But the pain… god. Each step was like walking barefoot on Legos. With knives.
You tried to adjust your gait. Slower. Then limping slightly on the outer edge of your feet. Then—
His voice came from just ahead. Not loud. But knowing.
You looked up. He’d stopped walking and turned to face you, brows slightly raised, his body already half-turned like he knew you needed him before you did.
You blinked, straightening quickly. “What?”
“Why are you walking like someone stole your kneecaps?”
You choked on a laugh. “I’m not.”
He stared. “Your face is all tight. Like you’re trying not to cry.” He took a step toward you. “What’s wrong?”
You looked down at your feet, chewing the inside of your cheek. “…My shoes are… kind of killing me.”
You winced, finally giving in. “Okay, it’s like walking on glass. With stilettos made of sin.”
He frowned, his eyes dipping to your shoes. “Those are the ones you said were ‘definitely manageable.’”
A beat passed. Then Charles stepped in, warm hand brushing your arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the walk. It was a nice night.”
He tilted his head, those hazel eyes doing that soft squinty thing that made you feel like the only person on the planet. “If you’re in pain, it’s not a nice night.”
Your throat tightened. Damn him.
“I can walk,” you mumbled, starting to step forward, but he moved fast—blocking you gently with one arm and crouching down with zero hesitation.
“Okay,” he said easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hop on.”
He looked over his shoulder, hand reaching back. “Piggyback. I’ll carry you.”
Your face flushed immediately. “Charles. No.”
“Y/N.” His voice lowered just slightly. “I’m not letting you walk five more steps in those torture devices.”
“But—” You paused, heart suddenly thudding. Your voice dropped, awkward and quiet. “I’m not exactly… tiny, Charles.”
He turned his head slowly, his brows drawing together. “What?”
“I’m just saying… I don’t want to break your spine or something.”
His jaw clenched. “Is that why you were pretending everything was fine?”
You hesitated. “It’s not that serious—”
He stood up and turned to face you fully now, eyes locking with yours. “You think I wouldn’t carry you because of your weight?”
“I just—some people wouldn’t be able to, and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to—”
“Y/N,” he interrupted, soft but firm. “Do you think I look at you and see numbers? Do you think I care about anything except the fact that your feet hurt and you didn’t tell me because you were afraid I’d think you were… what? Too much to hold?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He stepped closer, one hand cradling your jaw. “You could weigh a thousand suns and I’d still carry you. Because I want to. Because I love you. Because your pain is mine.”
Your eyes burned. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m Monaco’s top romantic,” he grinned, wiping your cheek with his thumb. “Come on. Shoes off, backpack mode activated.”
You laughed wetly. “Backpack mode?”
“Yes. You’re my favorite cargo.”
You slipped your shoes off, muttering something about catching tetanus from the sidewalk, and climbed onto his back. He lifted you with ease, settling your legs around his waist and hooking your heels into the crooks of his arms.
He didn’t even grunt. He just walked. Like carrying you was as easy as breathing.
You buried your face into his shoulder, nuzzling the soft cotton of his shirt. His skin was warm beneath it, his curls brushing your cheek as he turned slightly to whisper: “I meant what I said, by the way.”
He huffed a laugh. “About you being perfect.”
You smiled against his neck. “I still feel bad.”
“You’re allowed to feel bad. But you’re not allowed to hide pain from me. Or to doubt that I’d do anything for you.”
Your chest tightened. You kissed his cheek. “You’re… kind of the best.”
“I know,” he said, mock cocky. “But say it again.”
He gasped. “Abuse! From a woman being carried like royalty!”
“Don’t push it, Leclerc.”
“Fine,” he murmured, squeezing your leg gently. “But just so you know? You being worried about your weight… broke my heart a little.”
You froze against his back, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.
“I know I joke a lot,” he said, still walking slowly, “but hearing you say that... that you thought I wouldn’t want to carry you, or that you’d be too heavy for me—that’s not just wrong, chérie. That’s something someone probably made you believe a long time ago. And I hate that. I hate that it’s still living in your head, messing with your mirror and stealing moments that should feel happy.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight, your eyes stinging again.
He glanced back, just enough to catch your expression over his shoulder. “You’re mine. And I love all of you. I love your mind, your voice, your laugh, your body—the way you exist in the world. There’s nothing too much about you. Not your thoughts, not your feelings, not your weight. Especially not your weight.”
You pressed your face against his neck, trying to hold in the tears. But he noticed. Of course he did.
He stopped walking and let you slide down from his back gently. His hands stayed on your waist as you landed, grounding you.
You looked up at him. “I’m sorry I said it.”
“No,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Don’t be sorry for being honest. Just promise me something.”
“When your brain gets mean, let my voice be louder. Let me fight it with you, yeah?”
You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He leaned in and kissed you—soft, slow, and full of every unspoken word. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Now… want me to carry you the rest of the way, or are you emotionally healed enough to walk barefoot like a French forest nymph?”You let out a wet laugh, swiping at the corners of your eyes. “I think I can manage the nymph thing. Barefoot and slightly feral.”
He snorted. “Perfect. That’s exactly my type.”
The moment your feet touched the pavement, his grip tightened ever so slightly, like he didn’t want to let go of you completely. Like he never would.
“Tell me again,” you said after a beat, your voice softer now.
“What part?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“The part about you loving me the way I am.”
Charles stopped walking. You looked up at him, and he gave you this look—tender, unshakable, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.
“I love you,” he said simply. “Exactly like this. No conditions, no footnotes. No changing required.”
You blinked back another wave of tears and nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoed, smiling now.
“I mean, unless you want to carry me again. For the bit. You are very dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” he gasped. “I’m a gentleman.”
“Mhmm. A gentleman who pouts when I steal the covers and who owns four different hairbrushes.”
He nudged your hip. “Don’t mock the tools of perfection.”
You grinned and started walking again, your steps lighter, your heart steadier. His hand brushed against yours, then laced your fingers together.
“Race you home?” he said suddenly, eyes dancing.
“Exactly,” he grinned, brushing his fingers against yours again. “Still think you’d manage to outrun me, though.”
You raised a brow. “Outrun you? In bare feet? After crying in the street?”
He laughed, squeezing your hand. “You underestimate how terrifyingly determined you get when I tease you.”
You nudged his arm with your shoulder. “Good to know my villain origin story starts with emotional sabotage and sore heels.
He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “As long as it ends with you still holding my hand.”
You burst out laughing, and Charles looked at you like it was his favorite sound in the universe.
So you walked home together—barefoot, brave, and just a little bit ridiculous.
And somehow, in that quiet space between your old doubts and his steady hand, you started to believe it too.
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