MAROON - Charles Leclerc (16)
.SUMMARY: .Based on MAROON by t.s (3.3k words)
Charles Leclerc x she!reader
WARNINGS: angst, mentions of sex.
The morning light crept through the blinds, soft and lazy, casting a warm glow over the cluttered apartment. The scent of clove incense lingered in the air, blending with the faint traces of cheap rosé and something unspoken between them.
Her vinyl shelf—once perfectly alphabetized—was now tilted and scattered. Candles burned to their wick. Her feet were propped in Charles’ lap, his fingertips absentmindedly tracing circles on her ankle as if time weren’t real and nothing else existed but this.
They hadn’t realized the night had slipped away. Hours disappeared like melting ice in a glass, until it was just them and the echo of soft music spinning on the turntable. The record crackled, warm and alive. A song she didn’t remember putting on, but somehow, it fit.
Charles laughed, his head tilted back, carefree and golden in the morning light. She couldn’t look away.
“You know,” she said, breaking into his laughter, “when we started this, I thought we’d be solving the world’s problems by now. All this passion, and we’re just… drinking bad wine on the floor.”
He grinned, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who owns three bottles of gas station rosé.”
She nudged him with her foot. “You picked this one. I told you it had a screw top.”
“Well,” he said, lifting his glass dramatically, “to terrible decisions.”
She clinked her glass against his. “To terrible decisions.”
But her voice caught a little at the end.
Or maybe he did, and chose not to say anything.
They ran away to New York once.
No announcement. No itinerary. Just a jet reservation he did at 2 a.m. and a text that said, Pack light. Trust me.
She met him at the airport with a duffel bag and tired eyes, and neither of them said out loud what they were running from. But they were. Expectations. Headlines. The suffocating pressure of becoming something too quickly.
They found a boutique hotel in SoHo—exposed brick walls, creaky floors, windows so tall they made the sky feel within reach. The kind of place where no one asked questions. Where they didn’t have to be anything except two people who wanted to disappear into each other for a while.
The first night, they didn’t leave the room. He kicked off his shoes, pulled her into the middle of the floor, and danced with her in silence.
Just the city humming outside and the quiet beat of their hearts pressed together.
His hands rested low on her back, steady and warm. His breath brushed the shell of her ear as he leaned in and whispered, “In New York, no one notices.”
She laughed then, soft and unguarded, tilting her head back like she finally believed it. Like maybe they could be nobodies here. Just a girl in love and a boy who’d been holding his breath for too long.
They twirled slowly, clumsy and barefoot. Her head tucked beneath his chin. His lips brushing her temple, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. She didn’t even notice when she started crying—not sad tears. Just full ones.
He felt it before he saw it, and stopped moving. Held her still.
“Hey,” he said gently, like the word itself could catch her. “Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, blinking fast. “I think I’m just… happy.”
He smiled, and it was so soft, so real, it made her chest ache.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just like he’d known it for a long time and needed her to know too.
She looked up at him, stunned—not because she didn’t feel the same, but because he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I love you,” he said again, brushing her damp cheek with his thumb.
She kissed him like she was afraid she wouldn’t get the chance again.
Later, when they lay tangled in hotel sheets, skin to skin, city lights painting shadows on the walls, she thought: This is what it feels like when love is all-consuming. When it writes itself onto your bones.
But real life doesn’t dance. It drags.
And New York, no matter how far away it felt, was still just a moment borrowed.
Everything about it felt sharper, colder. Even the sea breeze that used to brush her skin like a secret felt like it was trying to push her away now. The lights of the harbor glittered beneath her balcony, too beautiful to be comforting. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, phone gripped in her hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
Her mother’s birthday had come and gone.
And he hadn’t been there.
She’d made the reservation herself. She’d reminded him three times—gently, like she always did. She bought the cake. She picked the wine. She had even left an extra place setting at the table, just in case.
Not a text. Not a call. Not even one of his usual half-assed excuses about the chaos of the track or a last-minute media appearance. Just silence.
It was almost midnight when the phone finally lit up. His name flashed across the screen like an insult.
She stared at it for a long moment. It felt like the phone was mocking her.
When she picked up, her voice was cold. “Where are you?”
There was a beat—too long—before he answered, his tone too casual.
“I’m at a party,” he said. Like it was nothing.
The sound of music filtered through the line. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Someone saying his name in the background.
She felt her stomach twist.
“You forgot,” she said quietly. Not a question. Just fact.
“I—” he began, and then stopped. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
But it didn’t matter anymore.
She hung up before he could say anything else.
She didn’t throw her phone or scream into a pillow like she had once, months ago, when he missed her art show. She just sat down at the kitchen table, rested her chin on her hand, and stared at the flickering candle on the half-eaten birthday cake.
He showed up hours later.
She heard the door click open. He still had a key.
He looked like hell—exhausted, disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes like smudges of regret. In his hands, he held a sad bouquet of carnations. He always called them roses.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “I came as soon as I could.”
She didn’t say anything at first.
Just watched him, arms crossed, body tense with everything she wasn’t yelling.
“I bought you these, you like roses” he said, holding the flowers out like they could fix it. “I know. I know I messed up.”
She reached out and took the bouquet, but only to look at them. Her voice was quiet when it came.
His face fell a little. “I thought they were—”
“You always get it wrong,” she interrupted. Her voice was tired, not angry. Not anymore. Anger took energy. And she had none left.
“It’s not the flowers, Charles. It’s everything.”
He looked like he’d been punched.
“I opened the wine tonight by myself,” she said, standing slowly, the bouquet still in hand. “The one we bought together in Florence. The one we said we’d save for something special.”
He didn’t answer. Just watched her with that same lost expression.
“My mom asked about you. She asked if you were okay. If we were okay. And I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t lie to her, but I didn’t want to tell her the truth either. That you forgot. That you chose rooftop drinks and pretty strangers over showing up.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he whispered, stepping closer. “There was a sponsor dinner, and it ran late and—”
She let out a breath that sounded too much like a laugh. “Don’t. Just don’t. I heard the music. I heard them.”
“I keep waiting for you,” she said, voice trembling now, but steady. “Waiting for you to show up. Not just physically. I mean really show up. For this. For me. But it’s always something else. The race. The team. The interviews. Your friends. The events.”
“I’m trying,” he said, and this time, his voice cracked. “I swear to god, I’m trying.”
She looked at him, and in his eyes, she saw everything. The love. The guilt. The ache. But none of it changed the truth.
“You’re always trying,” she said. “But I’m the one who keeps bleeding for it.”
He sank down onto the armrest of the couch, head in his hands.
Her hands shook as she placed the flowers on the table. Everything inside her ached. For him. For her. For what they were becoming.
And still, she didn’t cry.
She just stood there, blinking back the tears, because crying felt like surrender. And she’d already given too much.
The kind that makes your chest ache, that expands in the room like smoke after a fire. The kind that makes you feel like you might shatter under the weight of not saying something.
She looked at him—his jaw clenched, his shoulders trembling like he was barely holding himself together. Hollow-eyed. Haunted.
“How did we get here?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he breathed.
And then he sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Shaking. Quiet, broken sobs pressing through his fingers.
She sat beside him but didn’t touch him.
That’s when she knew they were past the point of saving.
Because even now, even like this, she couldn’t reach for him.
And he didn’t reach for her.
They didn’t talk much after that night.
Not forever, not even really long—but he lingered in the shadows of her apartment like a ghost still tethered to the living. He slept on her couch even though she never told him to. He made coffee in the mornings, his movements quiet, apologetic. Sometimes, she caught him watching her like he was trying to memorize something he’d already lost.
They weren’t together, but they weren’t apart.
It was a quiet, aching truce. The kind that only lasts because neither person has the energy to restart the war.
He kissed her once in the kitchen. It wasn’t heated or reckless—it was desperate. His hand cradled her jaw like she was breakable, and maybe she was. Her back hit the counter, and his forehead rested against hers, and they just stood there, breathing the same air like it might save them.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispered, voice hoarse with exhaustion.
She closed her eyes. “You don’t get to keep breaking something and then ask how to fix it.”
Still, she didn’t push him away.
They made love one night—slow, quiet, like they were apologizing with their bodies for everything their words couldn’t reach. He traced her skin like it held answers. She kissed the hollow of his throat and tasted regret.
Afterward, he pulled her into his chest and whispered, “I love you.”
She didn’t say it back. Not because she didn’t feel it, but because it wasn’t enough anymore. Not when the love always came tangled in pain and apologies.
He left again two days later.
A race. A press tour. Some event in Milan.
He kissed her temple and said he’d call. She nodded and smiled like it was okay. Like they hadn’t been pretending for weeks that it wasn’t already over.
And then—she didn’t hear from him.
Days stretched into a week. She watched the same interview clip of him smiling in a suit beside a luxury car, laughing with a sponsor rep. She waited, like she always did.
But something inside her didn’t bend this time. It broke.
The phone rang three times.
“Hey, love,” he answered, too casual, like everything was normal.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice a steady tremor.
There was silence. Then the soft, confused, “What?”
“I love you,” she whispered. “God, I do. But I’ve been loving you by myself for too long.”
“I don’t want to be angry anymore. I don’t want to keep shrinking to fit into the spaces your life leaves for me.”
“Baby, please—can we just talk when I get back? I can come this weekend—”
“No,” she said. Firm now. Final. “We always say we’ll talk later. But later never changes anything.”
And for the first time, she didn’t cry after hanging up.
She just stood in the middle of her kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, and let the silence settle. It didn’t feel peaceful, but it felt like the start of something honest.
The lounge was dim and elegant, a quiet sanctuary away from the clamor of the gala. Soft jazz hummed beneath clinking glasses, conversations murmured like secrets in the dark. Charles stepped in with the same guarded detachment he wore everywhere now—shoulders tense, smile absent.
Sitting at the bar, alone, glowing like a haunting memory.
Her maroon dress—the exact shade—wrapped around her body like memory itself. His breath caught in his throat. The silk clung to her curves, the slit teased her leg into view, and her bare shoulders gleamed under the low golden light. Her hair was pulled back, a few strands escaping near her face, delicate and deliberate. She was everything and nothing he’d forgotten.
His pulse echoed in his ears.
She didn’t see him at first. She was stirring her drink slowly, the ring on her finger catching a glint of light. He hadn’t seen it yet. Not yet.
When she finally looked up, their eyes locked—and the world shifted. Like the second before a crash. Like déjà vu mixed with dread.
“Charles,” she said, soft and unreadable.
He stepped closer. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“I wasn’t going to come,” she said, voice even. “But Luca asked.”
That name. His stomach flipped, but he held his expression.
“I thought you hated these events,” he said.
Her lips curved slightly, but there was no warmth in it. “I did. Still do.”
“You never invited me,” she said, not cruel, just factual. A mirror held up without mercy.
There was no accusation in her tone. That made it worse. It meant she’d already made peace with it. That he’d kept her at a distance for so long she stopped expecting more.
He nodded, unsure what to do with his hands, his breath, himself. “You look…” The word caught in his mouth.
She tilted her head, waiting.
“Devastating,” he said finally.
A flicker of something passed over her face. “Thanks.”
He noticed her hand now—the ring. Huge, unmistakable. His stomach dropped like a trapdoor opened beneath him.
Her fingers curled ever so slightly when she caught him looking.
Before he could speak again, a warm voice cut through the air.
Charles turned. He recognized the man instantly—Luca Fabbri. Not just some financier. One of the big ones. He’d been around the paddock before, a name that carried weight in every team meeting, every budget conversation.
Tall, charismatic, relaxed in his tailored tux. The kind of confidence money could never buy because it was born from knowing you had everything.
“Charles,” Luca said easily, stepping forward with a smile. “We’ve met before—Bahrain, I think. Or maybe Monaco?”
Charles shook his hand, skin prickling. “Yeah. I remember.”
Luca glanced between them with good-natured charm. “Didn’t expect to find myself in such legendary company tonight. Hope the extra funding helps build a car worthy of your insane skills.”
Charles gave a tight smile. “We’re working on it.”
“I’m sure you are,” Luca said warmly. “Can’t wait to see you at the top again. Just don’t make her laugh too much, alright? If you do, I’ll have to reconsider the investment. I’m competitive like that.”
He nudged her gently with a smile that said I know everything, but wore no malice. Just assurance. Just victory.
Charles barely held himself together.
Luca kissed her temple and said, “Come find me when you’re ready. They’re forcing me into photos and pretending it’s not torture.”
“I’ll be there soon,” she said softly.
Charles watched the man walk away like he belonged to the world Charles had only borrowed.
She didn’t speak. Just kept her hand wrapped around her glass, her ring catching the light like an accusation.
“How long?” Charles finally asked.
She didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.
He swallowed. “You’re marrying him?”
She hesitated. Then, “Yes.”
“Does he…” Charles’s voice cracked. “Does he love you like I did?”
Her gaze locked onto his. “He doesn’t disappear.”
Charles looked away, throat closing. “You never gave me a chance to fix it.”
“You had chances, Charles,” she said quietly. “So many. But love isn’t just showing up with flowers and apologies. Love is staying. Love is remembering. Love is showing up when it’s ugly, when it’s boring, when it’s ordinary.”
He blinked hard, eyes stinging.
“I loved you more than anything,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. “But it wasn’t enough.”
She slid off the stool, graceful even in heartbreak. The maroon dress rippled like memory in motion, like the past walking away.
And he just stood there, hollowed out, watching her become someone else’s future.
He told himself he’d leave.
That standing there any longer was pathetic, masochistic, stupid. But he stayed rooted in place, glass still half full in his hand and heart completely emptied in his chest.
And then the music shifted—slower now, a little sultry, warm with strings and low lighting—and he saw her again.
But this time, she wasn’t alone.
She was on the dance floor, moving easily in Luca’s arms, laughing like she was weightless. Like the girl he once knew, the one before the missed birthdays and rooftop bars and voicemails left unanswered.
Not perfectly. Not professionally. Just… easily. The way two people do when there’s nothing to prove.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, his hand resting on her waist with quiet confidence. They moved slowly, like they weren’t in a room full of people but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere safe.
Charles felt it then—not just jealousy. Not just regret.
Because she didn’t look like someone pretending to be over him. She looked like someone who finally was.
And when she laughed—head back, face alight—he realized something awful:
He’d never seen her like that with him.
Never that free. Never that light.
She caught his eye over Luca’s shoulder, just briefly. And something in her gaze softened, almost like apology. Or maybe it was just pity.
Because he couldn’t take it.
Couldn’t take seeing the ring on her finger catch the light as her hand skimmed over Luca’s chest. Couldn’t take the way Luca leaned down to say something in her ear, and the way she smiled—gentle, knowing, safe.
They looked like a couple who’d already survived the hard parts.
And Charles—he was still stuck in the wreckage.
