“Strawberries are what make Life Taste wonderful.”~ Anthony T. Hincks
This year my goal is to write and Talk more to you guys!! 🎀
My name here is Hera🎀, and I’m a big fan of Formula 1! Feel free to ask me anything about it — I’d love to talk F1 with you!
I also love reading fics here and reblogging the ones I especially enjoy. Disclaimer: I do read dark fics. I also read on AO3, so let me know if you’d like any recommendations!
I write as well and am open to fulfilling requests. I write for: Charles, Carlos, Max, Lando, and Oscar. You can check out my masterlist below.
Masterlist
Charles Leclerc
Summary: You realize you really have a weakness for pretty boys. When you're boyfriend dicides to live his batman dreams and chases the peop
Charles Leclerc x reader
Summary: You get stuck in the elevator with your neighbor and everybody's crush, Charles Leclerc.
Author's Note:
Charles Leclerc x reader
Summary: A relaxing day at the beach takes an unexpected turn when you lay eyes on the worst athlete you've ever s
Carlos Sainz
Summary: As Fernando Alonso's daughter, you finally have the opportunity to watch him race live again after several years. During the event,
Max Verstappen
Max verstappen x Female reader
Summary: You are being botherd by a guy who can't take a hint after you're friends left you behind. Until yo
WARNINGS: Non-Con, loss of virginity, depression, mentions of blood, semi-public sex, underage drinking, non canon ages, Carrera!reader, Rafe is an asshole with a capital A
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics
summary: Rafe Cameron never thought of himself as the hunting type, but the more you hid, the more he wanted to find you.
⭑
You curled up in the corner of the couch with your knees pulled to your chest as you faintly registered the conversation happening around you. You tried to engage enough to be considered present, but it was hard, and you didn’t think you were fooling anyone. You were positive that you hadn’t been fooling anyone for weeks, and when you glanced up you weren’t surprised to catch Kiara’s eye.
She was worried about you.
You never would’ve known if she hadn’t cornered you last week, not-so-subtly subtly trying to pry information from you to determine what had triggered this change in demeanor. You’d stupidly thought that you were behaving normally, somehow convincing yourself that you weren’t acting differently, at all. After all, you still hung out with your friends and laughed at their jokes and smiled whenever JJ showed you the fish he caught.
“You just seem…” Kiara shook her head. “…kind of spacey, I guess. Like you’re here, but…you’re not.”
That was what she’d said to you when you’d unconvincingly asked her what she meant.
You recalled letting out a near silent scoff, the realization washing over you that you weren’t doing as good of a job as you thought. It made you wonder how long the other girl had noticed without saying anything, and then, that only made you wonder about the rest of your friends too. Granted, Kiara was your sister, so she was bound to notice more than they did, but you’d also never written her off as the most observant.
Especially now that so much of her time was taken up by JJ.
So…if she noticed…
You swallowed, unable to sit here and put in more effort to appear somewhat happy. You couldn’t deal with Kiara’s periodic glances as well as wondering what they were saying about you when you weren’t around. You knew it wouldn’t be anything bad, but you suddenly felt like the elephant in the room. Even more so when all eyes focused on you the very second you started to stand.
“I think I’m gonna go home,” you said, shaking your head the moment Kiara started to stand too. “All I had today was an iced coffee, and it’s finally catching up to me, I think.”
“Even more reason to stay,” Pope told you, and you sent him a small smile.
“Even more reason to go lie down in my bed,” you chuckled.
When your eyes met Kiara’s, she stood anyway, a sigh leaving her as she reached for her keys.
“Well, I’m at least driving you.”
Her tone left little room for argument, and choosing to pick your battles, you simply gave her a small thanks. You waved everyone else bye after putting on your shoes, and you didn’t need to look over to know that your sister was staring at you as she walked at your side.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you? I mean, if you’re not feeling good someone should be home with you. Mom and dad are at The Wreck.”
“I’m literally just feeling a little lightheaded,” you assured her as you got in. “It’s nothing some noodles can’t fix.”
She didn’t look all that convinced, but she bit her tongue to whatever was clearly on her mind. The ride back home was pretty quiet outside of you flickering between stations here and there, and Kiara’s lack of protest over it clued you in on just how worried about you she was. Its why you weren’t surprised when you were prevented from hopping out the moment she parked in front of the house.
She’d reached out to you to stop you, and there was an unsure look flickering over her face. You could see that she was contemplating how to say whatever it was she was going to say, and eventually she just sighed.
“I know that I haven’t been available as much ever since JJ and I started dating,” she slowly started, eyeing you. “…but you know that if you ever want to talk, I’d blow him off in a heartbeat, right?”
You gave her a small smile.
“I know.”
She still didn’t look satisfied, probably hoping this would be an opportunity to really talk about whatever she wondered was going on with you. When it was clear you weren’t going to give her what she wanted, she merely pressed her lips together with a nod. She gave you a soft ‘okay’ before reluctantly unlocking the vehicle. You didn’t look back once you made it inside, but you didn’t need to to know she hadn’t driven off right away.
The sound reached your ears when she finally did.
You pressed your back to the wall the minute you were finally alone, and you stared at the wall before you for what felt like a long time before it eventually started to blur. Once the first tear escaped, the rest quickly followed, and your lips trembled as you roughly wiped your face. Your gaze rested on the family pictures on the wall, focusing on your smiling face in particular, and you wondered if you’d ever smile like that again.
You would never in a million years tell Kiara what was wrong. Not because you didn’t trust her and not because she wouldn’t believe you, but because you should’ve known better. You should’ve fucking known better, and instead of listening to what you knew, you ignored every instinct inside of you just to be nice. It was bad enough that two people in this world knew just how stupid and naïve you could be.
You didn’t think you could handle any more than that.
With a choked sob, you slid to the floor, head tilted back as you gazed at the ceiling. It was the same ceiling throughout the whole house, same color and all, and you found that gazing at it—as you’d done that night—brought you some comfort. It was all that had filled your vision when you’d felt more and more detached from your body, eyes tracing every inch of it as he’d pinned your wrists to your bed.
Staring at it calmed you, the sight of it much more enjoyable without Rafe Cameron’s heavy breathing in your ear.
“You want to hear something funny?”
The voice just at your ear was low, but the suddenness of it startled you, nonetheless, and when you turned, a familiar face was greeting you with a grin. His perfect teeth were winking at you as you slowly turned to fully face him, equal parts cautious and curious. Your grip on the red cup in your hand tightened for a half a second before you took a step back, thankful that no one was behind you to bump into.
“I was just at the beach,” the older guy said, leaning in so you could hear him. “…and your sister said you were at home because you’re in trouble.”
You felt all color drain from your face at his words, and by the look on his own face when he pulled back, he knew the exact effect they had on you.
“…but yet, here you are.”
Rafe Cameron looked nothing short of like the cat who caught the canary as he leaned his hand on the couch you both were standing next to. He had a drink of his own in his hand—although his wasn’t nearly as empty as yours—and his head was tilted as he eyed you. You watched him tilt his cup up to his lips, those blue eyes of his holding your gaze over the rim as his words—and what they meant—floated between you.
You scoffed at him.
“Kie would never talk to you,” was your best response, and you didn’t like the way his smirk grew.
“I never said she did,” he haughtily replied. “Only that she said it…and I heard her.”
Accepting that you’d been caught, you rolled your eyes, and the oldest Cameron only chuckled.
“You can relax, Carrera,” he drawled, laughing again before taking another sip. “Do I look like I care if Kie’s baby sister wants to sneak out to a party she has no business being at?”
“I’m not a baby,” the words flew out before you could stop them.
Of course, that didn’t need to be said, but despite the fact that you were only one year younger than Kiara and your friends, they had a moderately annoying habit of treating like you were a child. You suspected it was because Kiara always acted like she was much older than you than she actually was. The girl was twenty, not twenty-nine, and her behavior had long rubbed off.
You didn’t know if you liked the onceover Rafe gave you, blue gaze slowly taking you in from your hair all the way down to your platform flip flops and back.
“No shit,” he said matter-of-factly and leaning in, a crooked smile on his pink lips as he shook his head. “…but you’re two years younger than me, so unfortunately, that makes you a tad more childish than I am.”
“Rafe Cameron? Childish? Never,” you sarcastically said to him just before finishing your drink.
Rafe seemed to be really entertained by you for some reason, and when you lowered your hand, his gaze fell to your cup. When his eyes met yours again, he threw you a playful smirk.
“Do you want another drink?”
You held his gaze for a few seconds more before glancing away, eyes taking in the party that you weren’t supposed to be at. It wasn’t like your parents could actually legally stop you from walking out of their house and going to any party you wanted, but considering you were still at home with no means of independence whatsoever, you didn’t see the appeal in blatantly disrespecting them. Especially since you deserved your lashings for mishandling money they gave you.
You were starting to think you’d pushed your luck enough.
“I’m not even supposed to be here,” you told Rafe, throwing him a sheepish look. “I should probably go home.”
Rafe didn’t immediately respond to that, only staring at you for a moment before eventually nodding. You watched him take another swallow of beer, his eyes still on yours.
“You got a ride?” he wondered.
“Yeah.”
You answered too quick, and Rafe tilted his head at you, giving you a look that let you know he didn’t buy that.
“Really. Who?”
All of your friends were currently at the beach with your sister, and Rafe already knew that none of them knew you were even here. When you sighed in defeat, Rafe’s smirk grew, the corner of his lips pulling upwards.
“Fine, I walked…and I’ll walk back,” you told him with a shrug.
“Mm mmm,” Rafe hummed with a shake of his head as he downed the rest of his drink. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
He took your empty cup, and along with his, set them both down on a nearby table. You hesitated as he dug in his pocket for his keys, lips parting as you mulled over if this was what you wanted to do. It wouldn’t be the first time you walked back home from a party no one knew you were at. Granted, thankfully nothing had ever happened, but you didn’t know. It could finally be the night your luck ran out.
Nothing hardly happened on this side of the island much, anyway, but you started to feel silly for contemplating turning down a perfectly fine ride home. Rafe could be kind of an asshole, but nothing worse than the average Kook you encountered on a regular basis. Besides, even though you were far from friends, it wasn’t like you didn’t know him. You were literally best friends with his sister.
“Are you sure?” you asked him. “I really don’t mind walking.”
Rafe chuckled at you like he thought you were cute, and he gently touched your arm as he guided you through the full house. His chest grazed your back as he remained close, keeping you steady and on track to the door.
“Walking home in Kildare County on a Saturday night?” he wondered in your ear. “Never mind the drunk drivers, but you never know what creep might come along and just pluck you off the street.”
You scoffed at him, and Rafe’s laugh was in your ear as he led you outside.
“Is it bad?” Kiara wondered, looking between your face and your plate. “If dad’s off his A-game tonight, you can tell me.”
Pope and JJ chuckled at that, and you merely shook your head, pushing your food around before sitting up.
“No, I…” you licked your lips. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
When your eyes met Kiara’s, she was frowning, and you could tell that a small lecture about your eating habits was on the tip of her tongue when Sarah spoke up.
“It’s not good to eat so much on an empty stomach, anyway,” Sarah jumped in, throwing Kiara a look before smiling at you. “Just take your time.”
You appreciated that, and you sat back in your seat as Cleo asked John B. something about a noise his van was apparently making earlier. By the uptick in conversation at the table, you got the sense that the noise had some crazy story attached, and you tried to listen—you really did—but your mind kept floating somewhere else entirely, and when a familiar face flashed behind your eyes, you desperately craved a drink.
You had just set your empty water glass down when you heard a voice that might as well had been a bucket of ice for you. Your gaze was glued to the table as you froze, fingers grazing the glass, and even though you told yourself you were imagining things, your heart wouldn’t slow down. It felt like it was going to jump straight out of your throat, doubly so when the voice became so much clearer.
“I told you she’d be here.”
That haughty drawl made your hair stand on end, and you were so glad that your head was down so that no one could see the way your eyes watered. Sarah made a noise of disapproval, and you shared her sentiments completely. He wasn’t alone, Kelce and Topper’s voices reaching your ears too, and as much as you wanted to be anywhere but here…
You couldn’t move.
You were completely frozen in your seat, pinned down by some invisible force that wouldn’t allow you to get up and get as far away from Rafe Cameron as possible. You’d done a good job of avoiding him for damn near two months—avoiding any party or outing he might be at—but you were running out of excuses as to why you wanted to stay home or why you didn’t want to take advantage of a free meal at your parents’ restaurant.
You reached up to wipe your face just as he spoke again…closer this time.
“Rose said whenever you’re done doing…” he paused. “…whatever it is you’re doing to come straight home.”
You didn’t need to look up to know that small sneer was on his face. You could almost picture it, those blue eyes sparkling and those nostrils of his flared—almost in disgust. It was a very vivid expression, one you recalled being on the receiving end of when you begged him to stop. He’d looked at you like you didn’t have the right to even find the audacity to ask him such a thing.
“Did you ask what she wanted?”
Rafe didn’t answer, but the barked laugh that left his lips was answer enough.
You blinked at the table, still so…still, and some part of you—an irrational part—wondered that if you remained still, maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t see you. Maybe he wouldn’t acknowledge you. Even if he didn’t do it with his words, you didn’t know if you could handle being on the receiving end of that blue gaze.
However, the way that your skin suddenly pricked told you that your efforts were in vain.
“Lunch on the house with your friends?” he wondered to Sarah no doubt. “That’s cute.”
He dragged it out in a mockingly condescending way. After a beat of silence, you heard Rafe hum.
“I’d hurry up if I were you,” he advised. “Rose made it seem like it was urgent.”
You heard him walking, and it sounded like he and his friends were making their way towards the counter.
“Nice to see you all again. JJ, Cleo…”
He was slowly acknowledging everyone at the table, and you felt bile rising in your throat at the realization. The feeling became even worse once it became clear that Rafe was saving you for last, and your stomach violently turned when his lips finally curled around your name.
“Y/N.”
You felt light—too light—and where you once even felt maybe too cold you now felt overheated. Sarah was complaining about his lingering presence when you finally glanced up, hating the way your name fell from his tongue. You were unsurprised to meet his gaze, and if you thought for a moment that Rafe would look at you in a way that was anything like indifference or contentment…you were wrong.
It happened so fast as Sarah shooed him away. There was a glint in Rafe’s eyes when they looked into yours, and it was a look that spoke volumes. A small smirk danced along his lips, and there was nothing content about it. It said so many things without Rafe uttering a single word, doubly so when he gave you a quick onceover. Rafe had only said your name, but you understood him loud and clear.
We both know I had you and you couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
The moment he was at the counter with Topper and Kelce, you finally found the strength to move…and you used all of it to stumble to your feet and out of The Wreck. Kiara was quick to follow you out of the restaurant, on your heels just in time to witness you throwing up what little you ate all over the pavement. Her gasp was barely registered as your stomach heaved again, and you could hear that it was no longer just your sister with you.
“Cheese on bread,” you heard Cleo say in shock. “Pope, go get a napkin or something.”
By the time he came back, there wasn’t anything left in your stomach, and you thanked him as you took it. Kiara’s eyes were wide and concerned when you looked at her, wiping your mouth and tongue.
“Are you okay? Was it…the food? You barely ate anything,” she added, and you shook your head.
“My stomach’s been a little upset all day. Maybe Sarah was right, and I ate too much and too fast.”
Your words came out a bit slurred, and you noted how hot and lightheaded you felt. You remembered that vomiting dehydrated you, and Kiara seemed to remember the same thing, reaching for her keys.
“We should get you home,” she finally said, turning to glance at your friends. “We’ll see you guys later.”
You frowned at her when she pushed you towards her car.
“Kie, I’ll be fine. You can come back after you drop me off,” you told her, gesturing to them.
She merely gave you a look as you both slid into the vehicle. You could tell that she didn’t agree with that suggestion at all, but there was also something in her dark gaze that gave you pause. Worry clouded her face as she pulled out of the parking lot, and you found yourself eyeing her. Kiara was never one to keep her thoughts to herself when she clearly had something serious she wanted to say.
You were put out of your misery halfway to your house.
“Are you pregnant?”
Somehow that was the last thing you expected to hear her blurt out, and her concerned gaze met your wide one. While not entirely impossible, you were almost one hundred percent sure that you weren’t, and you gave her a ridiculous look.
“What? No!”
“Don’t…! Don’t look at me like that, alright? That’s not a crazy question-.”
“That’s not a crazy question…” you repeated, sounding more like a statement.
“No, it’s not,” she doubled down, looking between you and the road. “Not when you’ve been acting strange for two months! You’re not really here and I feel like we barely see you now and then today…”
She shrugged.
“You threw up in the middle of the day despite the fact that you’d barely eaten a thing.”
“…and you don’t think I’d be eating a lot more if I was pregnant?”
Kiara seemed to think that over, sitting back in her seat with a sigh. Her hands were tight on the wheel, and you could see her accepting how crazy that seemed. She roughly exhaled.
“Well, something’s wrong with you,” she forced out, sounding defeated, and you weren’t able to hold her gaze when she looked over. “I’ve been trying to be a good sister and just…let you know you can come to me in your own time.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself.
“…but I’m getting scared.”
Her voice was small, and you didn’t have a good response to that. Denying that anything was wrong would just insult her intelligence and probably make her worry more. You swallowed, fighting back tears and wondering how you could ever tell her what happened. You barely even wanted to think about it—despite how much it plagued your thoughts—let alone actually talking about it.
You didn’t know how to even begin to tell Kiara that your friend’s brother had raped you…in your own house…in your own bed, no less. You couldn’t stomach walking her through what happened that night and its eventual horrifying end. You didn’t know how to tell her that you’d been so stupid…and you especially didn’t know how to tell her that Rafe Cameron was walking around like he wasn’t even somewhat remorseful about what he did.
…but instead proud.
You didn’t know how to voice any of that, so when she parked, you were quick to be the first one out. You fixed her with a look that was meant to reassure her, but you didn’t know if you pulled it off. Gazing into Kiara’s eyes, you lied straight to her face with a small smile.
“I promise, it’s nothing.”
You didn’t give her the chance to respond, making your way up the driveway.
You’d been standing at the top of the stairs for a minute too long when your mom called for you again. When she’d called you down the first time, you hadn’t even considered what it could be for, just acting on instinct and pulling yourself out of bed. You hadn’t given much thought to the fact that you’d heard her answer the door only moments before. However, the moment you reached the top of the stairs, you’d tried to tell yourself that you were imagining that voice.
That hauntingly familiar voice.
His soft laugh reached your ears at something your mom said, and the sound of it brought tears to your eyes. Like at The Wreck only just the other day, you found it hard to move. Your hand was on the staircase and one foot was already on the step below, but you were finding it so hard to will yourself to move—to act like everything was normal.
To act like Rafe Cameron wasn’t in your house.
Again.
“I wonder if she’s…” your mom trailed off when she rounded the corner, face lighting up at the sight of you. “There she is! Come on, you’ll never believe it.”
Her presence—and her hand reaching for yours—gave you the strength to finally put one foot in front of the other. The whole ordeal felt like an out of body experience, your lips parted and eyes fearful as she led you into the living room, forcing you to come face to face with those blue eyes yet again. There was a grin on his lips as he stood by your door. To your mom, it was charming.
It was predatory to you.
“You will never believe what Rafe found,” she said, sounding so pleased.
When the other guy held his hand out…you wanted to be sick.
“It was just there…at the beach,” his smooth voice explained, and you were certain now more than ever.
You were going to be sick.
When your gaze lifted to meet Rafe’s, finally pulling your eyes away from your wallet, your heart sank. Your mom was going on a tangent in thanking him while you had yet to utter a single word. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to push him into the street, and you couldn’t even fix your mind to take the damned thing.
Rafe didn’t find your wallet on any beach.
You knew it, and he knew it.
He’d taken it the night he raped you.
Despite how terrified you were, you couldn’t break the gaze. Why? Why was he doing this? The oldest Cameron had gotten exactly what he wanted from you, so what did he get out of this? It wasn’t enough that he broke your trust and violated you, but now he meant to torment you too? You hadn’t even told a soul what he did. You hadn’t gone to the police, done a rape kit or anything, he got away with it, so what was the point of all this?
Beyond the despair and confusion, you could feel a hint of anger flaring within you, and that small flare must have made itself visible through your eyes…because the look Rafe gave you had you taking a step back. Your mom noticed, and she rubbed your back.
“Everything’s in there,” she assured you. “I know we got you a new one and everything, but at least you can know it found its way into good hands.”
Both her and Rafe chuckled at that, and your lips parted as you stared at him.
The look that Rafe had given you… For that brief moment when you felt a hint of anger, just a smidgen, the look in those blue eyes had made your blood run cold. There was a crooked smile on his lips and a softness to his visage, but Rafe’s eyes had told an entirely different story. There had been a glint in his gaze—a challenge—like he was almost itching to see what you would try and do to him.
At your mom’s urging—and with shaky hands—you hesitantly reached out to take your wallet, careful to avoid touching his fingers. You didn’t even recall thanking him, but you must have, because Rafe looked you over with a quickness your mom missed, that smile of his growing when your eyes met again.
“You’re welcome,” he slowly responded, almost dragging the words out in that smooth baritone.
“Rafe, would you like something to drink before you go?” your mom offered, and both of your minds seemed to go to the same place.
Tears kissed your eyes as her steps traveled to the kitchen, and Rafe full on grinned, briefly pulling his lip between his teeth as he brushed past you. You leaned away from him as he grazed you, and you didn’t imagine the way he’d turned his head to keep his eyes on you as he did.
“Just some water, thanks.”
Those words made your knees buckle, and you reached out, struggling to safely sit down on the couch. Your wallet fell from your hands as you heard him compliment her on the house, and the more he talked, the more your stomach churned.
“It’s so bright and cozy in here,” he praised. “I almost wish Y/N would lose her wallet again just so I have an excuse to come back.”
Wholly unamused by whatever he was doing, your tears spilled over, and you didn’t bother to make your exit known as you stood and stumbled through the front door.
“Hey, you mind if I can get some water?” Rafe said to you the moment he parked in your driveway, turning to you with a small smile. “I drank more than I thought I did, and I kind of want to sober up a little before I get back on the road.”
Your brows rose at that, stupidly under the impression that Rafe only had one beer, but there was no telling just how long he’d been at the party before bumping into you. You probably should’ve asked, and even though you knew Kiara—and maybe even your parents—wouldn’t approve of inviting a guy inside the empty house on a Saturday night, Rafe had driven you home. The least you could do was give him some water to make him feel better about driving.
“No, yeah, that’s fine.”
Rafe got out after you did, following behind you as you took your keys out. Saturday nights meant a packed restaurant, so you weren’t expecting anyone home for another few hours at the least. It wouldn’t take any time at all to give Rafe something to drink and send him on his way.
“It’s quiet in here,” he commented as you tossed your keys on the table by the door.
“The Wreck on a Saturday? Both of my parents kind of need to be there for that madness.”
Rafe amusingly agreed, and when you reached for a glass from the dishwasher, you glanced over to find Rafe’s gaze on you.
“What…?”
He was leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. You only just paid attention to his shirt and the way it pulled against him with every movement.
“Never pegged you as the type to sneak out. Seems more like Kie, to be honest.”
His comment made you laugh, and you tilted your head at him when you handed him the glass.
“One of us is just better at it,” you teased. “Besides, I snuck out for an hour and a half at the most. It barely counts.”
Rafe simply eyed you as he drank the water you gave him. You felt a tad awkward being alone with Rafe in your house, but it was only because you guys were far from friends, and you couldn’t recall a time you’d ever even had an actual conversation with him.
“I’m surprised you went to some Kook party,” he hummed, lowering his arm. “What? No boyfriend on The Cut you wanted to meet up with?”
Rafe’s gaze was so intense as he held eye contact, and it was then that you realized you didn’t think you’d ever been on the receiving end of it before. At least…not for an extended period of time like this. Having all of his attention felt strange.
“No,” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I don’t really date.”
Rafe blinked at you, folding his arms again as he tilted his head. There was a curious twinkle in his eye, and you didn’t miss the way he ran his gaze over your face.
“Why not?” he wondered with a frown.
“Um,” you said, rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “…because a lot of you are assholes.”
Rafe laughed with you, nodding his head.
“That’s fair,” he admitted. “…and smart. A lot of guys wouldn’t know what to do with you, anyway.”
You gave a chuckle at that, not because you found it funny, but because you didn’t know how to respond. Your gaze traveled to his empty glass while his remained on you, and a silence descended between you that reminded you he shouldn’t be here.
“Do you want another before you go?” you asked him, trying to politely kick him out.
There was a faint smile on his pink lips as he stared at you, and when he handed it to you, the corner of his lips twitched.
“That’s sweet of you…”
His fingers brushed yours when you took the empty glass, and you could feel his gaze on your back when you made your way to the sink. Your own gaze was on the faucet, and you were thinking about the shower you were going to take when you felt something brush against your arm. The feel startled you, and the glass fell in the sink when you jumped.
You hadn’t heard Rafe move, so you were shocked that he was so close.
“What are you…?”
Your words died in the air when the blond kissed you, his lips covering yours so expertly that you might’ve appreciated the opportunity under different circumstances. When you reached up to push at his chest, Rafe only responded by backing you up against the fridge. The only way to get your words out was to turn your head.
“Rafe, what…? Stop,” you gasped, pushing at his chest.
You liked to think that he was more drunk than either of you realized, but when he reached up to grab your hand, holding you against him as he pulled his face away, that mocking grin on his lips told you otherwise.
“Why?” he asked you like it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.
You ducked your head when he tried to kiss you again, harshly pushing at his chest, now, but Rafe was just as strong as he looked. When his lips met yours again, this kiss was rougher, and an uncomfortable gasp escaped you when one of his hands found the side of your neck. His teeth nipped at your lip, and following his lead, you bit him. Hard.
Blood welled on his lip when he snatched himself away from you, and the look he fixed you with broke you out of your momentary stupor. Your heart sank low in your chest, something in you screaming at you that Rafe wasn’t joking, and he wasn’t just trying to get handsy.
“Rafe, I think you should leave.”
Your words amused him, and he laughed to himself.
“…and if I don’t want to?”
You swallowed, and his eyes zeroed in on the movement.
“I’m serious,” you told him, voice cracking. “I want you to leave.”
Again, your demand clearly tickled him, and you realized then that this wasn’t going to work this way.
You made it as far as the hallway before his hand fisted your shirt, yanking you back so hard that the fabric pulled against your throat. The wind was knocked out of you when your back roughly collided with his chest, and once he got his arm around you, the door became farther and farther away.
“Rafe, you’re not funny,” you said to him, panicked and out of breath as you fought to get his hands off of you. “Rafe!”
Deep down, some part of you wanted it to be a joke gone too far, that maybe if he heard how scared you were then he would stop. To your horror though, Rafe seemed to like the fear in your voice, pinning you to the wall as he leaned in to press sloppy kisses to your neck. He was kissing you and yanking you up the stairs, and that only made your panic grow.
You hadn’t realized you’d started crying until your vision—and Rafe along with it—grew blurry. Your face felt cold as the air hit your wet skin, and in that moment, oddly enough, you were furious that yours and Kiara’s room doors were labeled because Rafe knew exactly which one to force you in. Your stomach turned at the thought of this taking place in your room.
Your safe space.
When it became clear that you wouldn’t be able to get away by fighting him off, you screamed.
Rafe had you pinned to your bed at this point, and he didn’t like the sound, fighting to cover your mouth. With one hand free, he could still pull at your clothes—the dress you’d warn to the party literally being ripped off of you. Everything was happening too fast, your mind fighting to understand how you’d just been downstairs getting him water not even fifteen minutes ago.
“Rafe, please,” you tearfully begged him, pushing against him and hitting him despite the little damage it was doing. “Get off, get off, please!”
The light from the hallway cast onto his face, and so you didn’t miss the sneer Rafe gave you. You didn’t miss the way his lip curled over his teeth, a look passing over his face like he couldn’t believe you dared to ask that of him. He even let out a soft laugh. He pushed against your chest as he reached between you, painfully holding you down, and your legs kicked around him, nails drawing blood on his arm.
You felt like you were having a panic attack when you felt the tip of him graze you. You couldn’t stop crying even if you wanted to, and Rafe didn’t kiss you again until he was inside of you, taking full advantage of your shock and agony. You felt frozen, eyes squeezed shut as the pain between your legs became unbearable, and when he tasted the inside of your mouth, you noted that there was hardly a hint of alcohol in his.
You sat behind some stranger’s car, arms wrapped around your knees as you fought to catch your breath. The sounds of the party on the beach reached you all the way to the parking lot, and you wondered why you fought so hard to act normal when nothing was normal. You weren’t okay, and it was growing increasingly more difficult to pretend you were.
You just wanted Kiara and your friends to stop worrying.
You hadn’t expected to see Rafe of all people on the beach when you joined the festivities. He tended to prefer a fancy house party with coke and other party favors. One look at him had you stopping in your tracks, and you’d made sure to look elsewhere before Cleo could notice.
“You okay?” she’d asked you, and unable to come up with a believable lie, you just told her you’d be right back.
That had to have been at least twenty minutes ago, and no matter how many times you started to, you couldn’t bring yourself to get up. Rafe was tormenting you…and you didn’t know why. You hadn’t missed the slight curve of his lips when your eyes briefly met his before you left the crowd. Before… Before you just thought that he’d sunk to a new low, just being an asshole about what he did. Now though…
Now, you were sure that he was seeking you out.
…but you didn’t understand why.
After that God awful day at your house, you rarely left it. Any annoyance your mom still had over that abrupt departure, it had long faded the more you holed away in your room staring at your wall. There were only so many excuses you could make, only so many times you could say you just didn’t feel good before someone demanded you go see a doctor.
Out of excuses—and just wanting to ease everyone’s worry—you tagged along tonight…and now you regretted it.
You didn’t know how to go back out there and pretend like he wasn’t in the crowd—watching you, no doubt. You wouldn’t be able to relax for a second, too busy looking over your shoulder and avoiding Rafe Cameron at all costs. You pressed your hand to your mouth, struggling to breathe as you cried and telling yourself that you had to do something because if they weren’t already, your friends would be looking for you soon.
With difficulty, you pushed yourself to your feet, thankful the car was an older model whose alarm didn’t go off at any mere touch. You didn’t know what excuse you were going to give to Kiara who’d no doubt been informed by Cleo that you’d been gone for too long. You wiped your face, and you told yourself that if anyone questioned it, you’d just claim you’d had some bad food that made you sick.
“Cute dress.”
No other voice could shatter any amount of composure you’d built up like that one. It was like being doused in cold water, all train of thought lost and only able to focus on how freezing and miserable you were. You didn’t even attempt to convince yourself you’d imagined it this time because you knew without a doubt now that Rafe was going out of his way to torture you about that night.
When you finally looked over, the man in question was leaning against someone else’s car. He was sprawled against it like it was his, and upon closer inspection, you recognized it as Topper’s jeep. You wrapped your arms around yourself at the sight of him, and you wondered just how long he’d been there…watching you.
“Rough night?” he quietly wondered, eyes raking over your frame, and you shuddered under his scrutiny.
“Leave me alone, Rafe,” you breathed, moving to go back to the beach when he blocked your path.
You tried to get around him, but Rafe wasn’t having it.
“Woah, hey, I just want to talk,” he laughed, reaching out to you.
You stumbled back away from him, fearfully eyeing him. You weren’t quite as alone with him as you were before, but it was just enough for Rafe to do whatever he wanted should he find himself determined enough.
“What could I possibly want to talk about with you?” you breathed. “…and what could you possibly have to say to me?”
You continued before he could say anything.
“We both know you’re not sorry,” you choked out. “You’ve done nothing but make my life hell…and I don’t know why because you got what you wanted.”
Trying to get by him only resulted in him reaching for you again, and so you reached for your phone. Rafe’s hand followed yours, and so as soon as your hand was around your phone, his was around your hand, and the fight over the device was quick. Tears of anger kissed your eyes when he held it out of reach, and your breathing was heavy when he leaned in.
His nose touched yours, and in your efforts to back away, you backed right into the car.
His eyes flickered between yours, and the more you leaned back, the more Rafe followed until he was practically on top of you. He shifted, and you both felt and saw both of his hands come down on either side of you to rest on the vehicle, effectively caging you in. He was so close that you could faintly smell the cologne he put on before he left the house, and when his gaze lowered to your lips, your heart sank.
You pushed at his chest, but Rafe wasn’t budging.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get you alone?” he murmured.
His words made you freeze, and your eyes widened.
“…and I guess that’s my fault,” he said with a shrug. “You’re always…in the house or…with your friends, now.”
He leaned in some more despite the pressure you put against his chest.
“You make it so difficult to get you by yourself, now,” he continued with a small smirk. “So, all I’ve been able to do is just dream about that night…instead of reliving it.”
His hand on your face had you jerking away, hands pushing against his chest as he leaned in to kiss you. You made a noise of protest, and Rafe only shushed you, lips grazing yours. One of his hands completely dug into your hip at your attempt to scoot back on the car.
“Relax,” he whispered in what was probably meant to be a soothing manner. “Just relax.”
One of his hands was behind your neck, the other kneading into your upper thigh when he kissed you. He swallowed any noise you attempted to make, and like before, Rafe didn’t seem to care that you didn’t want this.
“You should’ve told me you were a virgin before I fucked you,” he murmured against your lips, smiling into the kiss. “I would’ve been nicer about it.”
The reminder of the blood that night made more tears spill over, and you were in awe that Rafe saw that night as something to look back on with the idea of fun while it had completely turned your life upside down…but maybe that was the fun part for him. He had to know how much what he did affected you.
He wouldn’t stop kissing you—wouldn’t let you make a sound—and when the hand on your thigh settled itself on your back, you tripped over your feet when he pulled you away from the car. You could hear your phone going off wherever Rafe had abandoned it, and you had no doubt that all of your friends and Kiara were looking for you.
Unfortunately, Rafe was forcing you into the back of Topper’s jeep.
Your hand was on the opposite door handle as soon as you were inside the vehicle, but with one successful yank back, Rafe climbed over you and closed it. You heard the resounding click of the locks, and you pushed against the seat when you felt Rafe lips trailing along the side of your neck.
“I didn’t get what I wanted,” he whispered against your skin, making you tremble. “…because I still want it.”
Rafe had you completely pinned between him and the seat, and your struggle grew frantic when you felt how hard he was against the back of your thigh. One of Rafe’s hands snaked its way underneath you, circling around your throat as he left kisses along your skin. His other hand was trailing along your frame, and when it started to push at your dress, the hand around your neck tightened.
You could barely breathe properly now…let alone scream.
Rafe’s breathing was heavy, evident in the way his chest heaved against your back. It didn’t stop him from pulling your head back and kissing you though, all the while releasing himself, the sound of his zipper loud in the otherwise car. Your friends were long gone from your mind, now, with your only focus on how you were going to handle this again.
Tears kissed your face as you reached up to pull at Rafe’s hand, but his grip was tight, and your grip started to slip the moment you felt him press the head of his cock into you. Your toes curled, body going still as memories of the last time flashed behind your eyes. Your underwear pulled over his hand, his fist keeping them completely pushed to the side as he slowly pushed his way into you.
“Just like I remember,” he purred against your ear once he’d pushed his cock into you to the hilt.
His movements had you gripping the seat of Topper’s Jeep, your feet kicking back at the door. His thrusts were slow, reminiscent of the last time, but unlike now, Rafe had only slowed his pace then once he saw the faint blood on his cock. Now, you didn’t know if he’d meant what he said earlier about being gentler or if he was simply trying to savor it.
When his hand finally let your throat go, you greedily sucked in air, but your relief was short-lived when his whole arm found its way around your neck. You had no choice but to hold onto it as he snapped his hips against you, the slow plunge of his cock forcing a whine from you. Rafe’s forehead rested on the back of yours, and you could both feel and hear how much he was enjoying this.
“I almost didn’t want to leave that night,” he breathed, a gasp escaping when he curved his hips against you. “I could’ve fucked you all night.”
The inside of the Jeep was filled with the sound of your reluctant moans and Rafe’s heavy breathing and words. You could feel your body becoming lighter and lighter, and you knew it had nothing to do with Rafe’s arm around your neck. The feel of his thrusts became easier to bear, and like that night, you found your gaze focusing on the door…just as you’d done with the ceiling.
The knowledge that he hadn’t just been tormenting you but had been seeking you out for a reason left you feeling a little numb. The whole reason you hadn’t done a thing about it in the first place was because you just wanted to avoid Rafe Cameron at all costs. He was violent and terrifying, and those two things had scared you into simply scrubbing yourself raw that night before crying yourself to sleep. You thought that he’d gotten what he wanted and would leave you alone.
…but you never considered that it wasn’t about the sex or the power, at all.
It was about you in particular and the power he wanted over you, the gratification he wanted from you.
It was why he boldly acknowledged you knowing exactly how terrified you were of him. It was why Rafe dared to enter your home once again, knowing exactly what the sight of him in there would do to you. It was why he taunted you and challenged you to even dare to retaliate. You didn’t know if Rafe was just some bully who decided you were it, or perhaps something just a tad more sinister.
When he flipped you onto your back, he didn’t like the blank look in your eyes.
“Uh uh, look at me,” he softly demanded, lightly tapping your cheek. “Look right at me.”
When you refocused on his face, more tears spilled over, and you were sure Rafe liked the sight of them. He leaned down with a hand on your throat, your knees to your chest and your feet resting against his stomach as he leaned over you, stuffing you full of his cock. The sound of it sliding into you over and over again was loud in the vehicle.
Your eyes were on Rafe’s, and his blue gaze never left you, lips parting as he watched your face. He slowed his hips down, thrusting into you at a languid pace, and when you clenched around him, a slow smile danced along his lips—crooked and taunting. He studied your face like he was fascinated by it, and you were reminded of that night at the party.
He’d looked like the cat who caught the canary. In your own house, he’d reminded you of a wolf toying with some poor deer before putting it out of its misery when you looked back on it. Every time your eyes had met his in public—including now—Rafe looked like nothing would be more fun than taking you between his teeth.
As he continued to fuck you in the back of his best friend’s car, you had the realization that around Rafe Cameron, you very much felt like prey, and the man on top of you had long come to that same conclusion before you did.
…and he’d pounced the moment your back was turned.
1 - ONE
you're arrival doesn't go as expected for anyone
series masterlist here
pairing: valarr targaryen x cousin!reader x aerion targaryen
warnings: dark fic. future non con. future dub con. dark aerion. dark valarr. underlying sexual tensions. nudity. incestious feelings. angst. jealousy from reader who needs reassurance. mean aerion this man is just cruel to you but reader enjoys it. mentions of drug use and shotgunning. recovering addict parent. 18+ MDNI
a/n: finally posting part one, im so excited for this whole thing... sorry no smut in this chapter but trust there will be lots to come. thank you for all the love so far
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
There’s a silence to the open water, sinister in nature when you’re swimming out on your own. It makes the whole idea of feeling like you’re being watched creepier. There’s a possibility that in the depths of water something is watching you. Under the water there’s an array of life that swim up shore to hunt for food and even though you’re not their usual prey, you don’t think they’d at all mistake you for a predator.
But it's not them you’re worried about.
Two violet eyes watch you from the deck you swam out from, brows furrowed as they stare you down in the open water. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there, waiting but you can tell by the frown on his face and the way the cigarette dangles from his lips he isn’t happy.
When is Aerion ever truly happy? Oh— when his pretty teeth are marking up the tender flesh around your collar bone or his hands are tugging at the ends of your hair.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he calls out and yet you don’t move, just dip your head further under the water, knowing it will frustrate him.
He looks different than last summer, or maybe you’re just looking at him differently. His jaw line seems more chiseled, muscles underneath his tank top more defined, and for some reason you have the sudden urge to touch them. To run your finger along his subtle pale skin.
You’d been thinking about it all year actually, thinking about both of them differently since last summer, since the kiss that was shared between the three of you. It hadn’t really been a kiss, just gentle brushes of lips against one another as you passed around polluted air from one mouth to another.
Shotgunning. Something Valarr was so eager to show both of you. You’d wasted a good spliff on it. Gotten so high that you found comfort as Aerion pulled you onto his lap and Valarr’s fingers drifted to linger along your thighs. You remember lifting your head for another, pressing your lips to Aerion’s for more only for both boys to laugh, the spliff being finished long ago. But they both looked at you then, eyes dilated and hungry for something more, a line you all had never crossed.
It’s left you hungry all year and as you peer up at Aerion you still feel that deep hunger for more.
“Spend the holidays with your father?” You can hear the jealousy biting at his tone as he shouts at you, throwing the end of his cigarette into the water.
You swim back to the deck, only for him to stand at the end when you reach it.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” He asks, staring down at you and as your hand grabs onto the wood, his foot comes down against it. He doesn’t apply pressure, not at first but slowly he pushes down until he can see discomfort all over your face and the way you try to swallow the pain.
“Aerion,” you hiss, trying to wriggle your fingers free.
“Is that how you greet our cousin, Aerion?” A voice calls out from the trees, one you recognise all too well.
It catches Aerion off guard and you're quick in snatching your hand back from his grip, swimming backwards again.
“Look you’ve scared her,” Valarr tuts, stepping into view as he walks out onto the deck.
He looks different too you think, his dark locks more outgrown and while he might not be as toned as your cousin, he’s thicker in ways that don’t compare.
“She likes it,” Aerion retorts before turning back to you. “Get out of there before a gator gets you.”
“There’s no gators in here,” you say with a smile.
“Get out before I get in,” he smiles back, wicked lips twisting into a smirk as your own smile drops. “And you know I can swim much faster than you.”
You roll your eyes, swimming back over before pulling yourself back up.
It’s silent for a while as you come to stand and you’re not certain why until you meet both of their eyes, Valarr’s first and then Aerion’s, only to find both their gazes attached to your breasts. Aerion swallows, twisting his sights away but Valarr doesn’t stop looking, not entirely only clenching his jaw as he looks up at your face.
“Where are your clothes?” Aerion questions.
“It was hot and I didn’t want to get them wet,” you simply say, shrugging as you keep your eyes locked with Valarr’s heavy gaze.
Valarr’s eyes peer down for another second, shaking his head as he takes a step back. “Put your clothes back on, we want to show you something.”
Aerion steps around you, following his older cousin while you throw your clothes back on.
You can feel their lingering stares on your back and as much as you want to, you can’t find it in you to turn around.
Aerion throws you over his shoulder when you finally reach them, only putting you down when you squeal and kick at him to do so. You’re already halfway there when your feet touch the ground, walking through the fields of dry grass that need to be cut.
They’re taking you through the abandoned part of the ranch, almost half a mile from the main house. They tried for years to use this part of land to get things to grow or to even let cattle graze on it, but the soil seemed to always be dry, ruined. After years of wasted seeds and dead cattle, they had completely given up. There was no use.
It left a part of the ranch untouched, a perfect sanctuary for three teens to venture out to and hide away from their parents. Especially in the barn that offered them cover, empty except from a few deck chairs and blankets you all had dragged here.
That’s exactly where they are taking you.
“This isn’t really showing me-” you go to say, only to stop yourself as your eyes catch the scaffolding around it.
Your eyes go wide, lips twisting into a smile in realisation, speeding up your steps to get closer.
“Told you she’d like it,” Valarr says, falling in toe behind you until he’s right up to your heels, pulling you up into his arms to carry you the rest of the way.
The barn is empty, none of your pieces of furniture in sight. Bits of the rotten wood had been torn down, replaced with better pieces and a stable frame. They even had bricks already starting to come together around the outside.
“It’s a work in progress,” Valarr tells you, placing you down on the stone floor, only to press his chest to your back in a hug.
“Your parents are actually letting you do it.” You can’t stop grinning as you look around, remembering promises from years ago seeming to come to life.
“We could have got started sooner if Valarr hadn’t been fooling around with his new girlfriend all spring.”
Your smile falters as the words try to sink in.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Valarr’s hands fall from around you, going to shove Aerion with a hard push.
“Still been fooling around with her all spring,” Aerion says again as if it’s the most casual thing. As if his very words didn’t make you feel sick.
You fall silent the two boys bickering as you step away from them, and it takes them a while to stop and look back at you.
You can barely look at them though, eyes falling to the floor as you mutter, “A girlfriend."
“What?” Aerion asks, not quite hearing you.
But when you look up, you’re sure with the way Valarr looks at you that he heard you. He’s frowning but not at you, not really.
You have no right to be annoyed, no claim to him that allows you to be upset. Only a sick infatuation that makes your stomach twist every time he nears.
“You got a girlfriend,” your voice cracks, and you can feel your throat swell.
“And you didn’t come home for Christmas,” Valarr snaps back, but not aggressively. It’s cool and collected, as if he’s been waiting to blow that hit for quite a while and yet it hurts all the same.
You go to brush past him but he’s quick to grab you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says and a part of you wants to believe him but you know it would be far from the truth.
“Yes,” you nod, voice cracking as you steal your wrist away from his grip. “You meant every bit of it.” Your gaze flickers to Aerion. “Just as you meant it earlier.”
“What?” Aerion throws back at you, lifting his gaze to meet you. “I’m not allowed to be upset.”
“I was with my father,” you tell him, eyes drifting to the floor. “But you already knew that.”
Valarr whispers your name, reaching out to you but you shrug him off with a smile.
“It’s not like I’m upset or anything,” you try laughing it off, forcing the lump down your throat with a harsh swallow. “Just wish you had told me sooner.”
“So you don’t mind that I also have been fooling around with a girl this Spring,” Aerion bites, wanting a reaction.
He catches you off guard and almost instantly and you can see the regret wash over his face. He’s always talked before he thinks.
“Why would I be upset?” Your eyes bore into his and you shrug as if you’re not physically trying to stop the bile from rising up your throat. Do you want me to be upset? You want to ask, to understand the real intention behind his words. You know enjoys hurting you but did he really want to see you cry?
“Seems like I’m the one left out again,” you laugh, trying to make a joke of it all. “Pity I didn’t find a pretty boy this Spring.”
Aerion’s eyes darken at that and the sight of it makes your skin crawl and burn all at the same time that you have to look away. You don’t dare to look at Valarr’s face though, terrified of what you might see so instead you look at his hands, noticing the way he twists and pinches at his fingers instead.
Those fingers.
You swallow, gaining your composure again. You should change the topic of conversation, move away from these dangerously blurred lines between the three of you. But you don’t know if you have it in you.
“It’s going to be beautiful I bet,” you say, looking around the work in progress. You step into the space once more before turning to look at both of them, none of you smile, you can’t. There is no happiness here. “It’s just a shame I won’t be here to see it.”
You know those words strike a chord and you set on every intent for them to do so. You’re sure they heard it, sure their dads had told them, sure they already know you haven’t come alone this summer.
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divider by @ chrisssiren
a/n: my girl is horny for her cousins and i can't say i blame her.
pairing: mob boss!charles leclerc x fem!reader
summary: in which you find yourself drawn into the orbit of a man made of chiaroscuro -- light dressed in shadow OR you and charles make a habit of crossing lines that were never meant to be gray
warnings: NOT PROOFREAD (prob typos, forgive me), some gore/fighting???, language, kinda cutie also LOL. no smut (yet)
word count: 8k+
author's note: hi hi, I hope you guys enjoy reading this (due to my aunt passing and other stuff going in my life I haven't touched part 2 of this in months so it might be a while until I post another part for this) but in the mean time I hope you all like it and enjoy xoxo
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You’re meant to lock the gallery up around eight. But it’s been one of those long days where you don’t even know what time it is. And even if you did know the time…well, it’s not like it matters.
There were too many clients asking for provenance forms which you’re 100 percent sure they’ll never actually read. It’s more like they just wanted to be able to say provenance form to sound more sophisticated than they are. Too many phone calls that started off with the phrase just a quick question, only to end thirty or so minutes later with you googling the difference between two shades under gallery lighting.
Too many people.
You’ve kicked off your shoes behind the front, wooden desk because you gave up on that kind of elegance hours ago. And your brain feels like a literal bowl of soup. Or even jell-o.
And on top of that…your phone keeps blowing up with texts from your friends begging you not to bail on your weekly Thursday night drinks.
Again.
You straighten up the brochures that no one really touches. And you can’t help but think about how your boss has managed to disappear in the middle of the day all week as you glance at his empty office.
Always a muttered be back in an hour but it never means in hour. And how he’s been coming back smelling like a carton of cigarettes…even though he doesn’t smoke. Or at least in the past five years that you’ve worked here, he’s never smelled like smoke. You try not to question it too much.
Who are you to judge?
But you tell yourself that it doesn’t really matter. Just finish up…make it to Thursday night drinks…so that you can get home and snuggle in bed.
You’re leaned over, flipping through the log of visitor’s when the front door chimes. A tiny ring. One that feels like some promise to ruin your night.
And you’re ready to recite your usual spiel of sorry, we’re about to lock up the place but the words don’t make it out. Because the man standing in the gallery looks very much like the kind of person who doesn’t need permission.
In a suit similar to the color of the faded pavement just outside…he stands by the door. Shirt open at the collar, and the faintest bit of gallery lighting hitting the line of his throat. No tie. Cuffs rolled once.
He stands there like stillness.
“Bonsoir,” he says. His voice smooth.
And for a moment, you feel like you can’t even find your voice. Because he’s so handsome in the kind of way that makes your brain feel foggy. Makes you forget basic greetings for a job you’ve had for years.
“Hi,” you finally manage to say. The word coming out just a little too loud. “Um..I mean good evening. We’re technically about to close…” The faint reddening of your cheeks becoming more prominent when you became suddenly too aware of how unprofessional you sound. You glance at the clock, even though you know you don’t need to.
He doesn’t interrupt you.
“But we’re uh, technically still open…so…congratulations on perfect timing. Though, I mean…it’s not that perfect. Kind of accidental, yeah? But still…lucky for you. Or unlucky for me. Depending how y’look at it though…not that you’re…unlucky…I mean y’seem..” You wave your hand at him. “Fine.”
The sentence dies and you can actually feel your soul leave your body.
Actually, you make a note of how he hasn’t moved an inch. No…he just stands there with his hands shoved into his pockets. Head slightly tilted…an amused crease forming at the corner of his lips.
And you hate that you can tell that he’s trying not to laugh.
You think it makes it worse.
“Sorry,” you rush to get the word out. “I…uh, it’s been a long day…my brain’s kind of…uh, mush.”
His mouth twitches. “Mush,” he repeats quietly. His accent making the word almost sound…elegant.
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Not my finest moment.”
He hums. Eyes steady. “Your boss keep y’this late often?”
“Always…at least recently,” you sigh. “Disappears and says he’ll come back in an hour. S’almost never an hour though.”
“Hmm.” He clicks his tongue. “He was supposed to meet with me tonight.”
You blink. “Oh. He…he uh, didn’t mention anything to me…but you just missed him. Like he literally just left before dinner. All mysterious and shit…”
That earns a soft laugh. The kind that came out before he could stop it. “Well…he always did enjoy wasting people’s time.”
You tilt your head now. Lean your hip against the counter. “So you know him, then?”
He nods. “And he knows me.”
The way he says it…calm…kind of sharp…has your chest tightening. And you don’t know why.
You shift a bit. “So you’re…what exactly? A client…friend…?”
He looks amuse. “I guess y’could say that.”
“Cool,” you cross your arms across your chest. “Very cool….vague…but cool.”
It draws another laugh from him. And he looks at you properly his time. An assessing look. “Y’talk a lot.”
“Yeah,” you wince a bit. “Sorry..it’s just..it’s my defense mechanism, yeah? Like some people have pepper spray…I have opinions and random information.”
It earns you a full blown smile. “C’est mignon,” he mutters below his breath.
You squint at him. “M’not sure what that means…but your tone feels a bit patronizing.”
He chuckles. “It means cute.”
“Oh.”
He checks his watch. “Tell your boss that I came by, yeah?” He says. “Charles Leclerc. He’ll know.”
You nod. “Right…I’ll…I’ll make a note. Should I underline it? Maybe add some sparkles?”
He laughs again. “No need. He’ll know.”
He turns back to the door. His hand touches the handle of it, and he glances back.
“Lock up when I leave,” he says.
You raise a brow. “Bossy much?”
His eyes glint over a bit. “Only when I mean it.”
And then he’s gone.
-
Joe & Joe’s was the kind of bar that honestly never changed.
And on a random Thursday night…well, the bar hums the way it usually does. With the conversations flowing and the two ceilings fans pushing the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne around. Pool balls smacking in one of the corners. The jukebox practically fighting to be heard over all of it.
But it was perfect.
You spot your table before anyone notices you. The same old corner booth that you’ve all claimed for years. And a pile of jacket’s on one side already.
Jackie sees you first. Lifts her drink with a grin. “Look who finally showed up!”
While Drew says, “Y’finally survived the art mines?”
You narrow your eyes a bit as you slip into the booth. “I missed two weeks. Relax.” You drop your purse onto your lap. “And barely. My brain’s like soup right now…straight up mush.”
“Chicken or tomato?” Colin asks. Eyebrows raised with interest.
“Gray.” You mutter. “Like abstract expressionist gray.”
Jackie snorts. Lily rests her chin into her hand. “You’re doing it again.”
“She always does the thing,” Jackie says. “Just let her have the art stroke.”
You ignore them. Reach for a fry off of Drew’s plate across from you. “Y’ever have a day that feels like a Jackson Pollock?”
He looks at you for a moment. Nods. “Like what? Too many layers and wet paint everywhere?”
You grin. “Exactly!”
He pushes the plate closer toward you without another word.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Colin asks.
“Dude, catch up…she’s clearly saying her day was chaos.” Drew says, like its something obvious. He rests his arm over the back of the booth. And he’s got that knowing look. Y’know the one that says he’s amused? It’s the same one that used to drive you crazy.
Lily rolls her eyes. “God, these two weeks apart almost had me forget what its like watching telepathy.”
“We dated…we’re not telepathic.” You roll your eyes. Drew huffs out a laugh.
Colin leans in with a grin. “So what happened? What did Mr. Macho Art Gallery Boss do this time?”
You groan. “Nothing new…just on that fuckin’ mysterious kick still.”
“Maybe he’s in the mob or some shit,” Colin shrugs.
“He’s not even cool enough for the mob,” you snort. “He’s mob-adjacent at best…like maybe he handles their catering or something.”
Lily laughs. “Y’could quit y’know?”
You shake your head. “Never. M’hoping one day he just hands me the place…m’like the only worker who’s lasted this long. Think he’d die without me if m’being honest.”
Tony walks by and drops another round off onto the table with nothing but a smile. You raise the glass almost instantly.
“Oh,” you add suddenly. “Some guy came by today too…said he was looking for him.”
Colin perks up. “Like a client?”
“No idea…he wouldn’t really say,” you lean back. “Walked in like right before closing. In a suit…no tie…and he was so…uh, so…calm?”
“Sounds hot,” Colin admits. Then, pushes his empty glass toward the edge of the table so Tony can grab it whenever he passes by next.
“God, he was…” You sigh into the palm of your hand. “That’s probably the worst part about it too.”
Lily’s grin widens. “So like…mysterious and hot?”
“No,” you sit up straighter. The booth creaking a bit as you move. “Not a fun kind of mysterious…more like the mysterious in the I probably shouldn’t be alone in a room with you kind of way.”
That gets everyone’s attention almost instantly. Though, you already had it.
“He was like…uh,” you pause. Trying to find the right words. “Scary? But not like cause he did anything…cause he didn’t. He was actually polite…but it was like he carried this sort of weight on him…like he knew something no one else does.”
Drew raises an eyebrow. “So y’mean you were intimidated?”
“M’saying…” you correct, “I was disoriented. Like my nervous system picked up on something that my brain couldn’t.”
Colin whistles softly. “Damn.”
Jackie stares at you from the rim of her glass. “Definitely sounds hot…did you at least get his name?”
“Charles something…” you drag your finger through the condensation ring on the table from your glass. “Charles Leclerc, I think? It was weird…he was looking for my boss. Like who walks in a minute before closing dressed like that? And he had that whole I own the room and the air you’re breathing thing going on.”
Jackie laughs. Claps her hands once. Her bracelets clinking together from the movement. “Okay, so either you’re about to get murdered or seduced….keep us posted?”
You groan…bury your face into your hands, but half-laugh with the rest of the table. And the table comes alive with other stories. Someone flags Tony down for another round, Lily whisper’s about the cute guy near the dart board…but your minds already back at the gallery. To the sound of the door chime, the way you word vomited…to the way he just stood there like he was waiting for something to happen.
And your chest feels a little too tight.
Like somehow, some part of you is still in that room with him.
-
The next day just feels like a hangover. Like some sort of slow ache beneath your ribs.
Your brain feels like its a full minute behind the rest of your body. And by the time you reach the gallery, the air outside is cool and gray.
You’re half-way through your mental checklist…turn lights on, open the blinds, water the stupid fucking plant by the front door that’s been half-dead for the last few months because newsflash: you suck at taking care of plants…when you notice it.
The blinds to the gallery are already open.
He’s early.
Which makes you stop in place for a moment, confused. Because your boss doesn’t do early. Hell, he doesn’t even do on time as of late.
“Hello?” You call, voice echoing in the empty gallery.
“In here,” he answers, voice muffled from the distance.
And you follow his voice down to his office. The door’s only half-way open. You nudge it a bit more.
He’s sitting behind his desk. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jacket thrown over the back of his chair. Piles of paper scattered along entire top of the polished wood.
“You’re earlier today, hm?” You say from the doorway.
He looks up, smiles a little too fast. But it doesn’t remotely reach his eyes. “Trying to get all this paperwork out of the way…be a little more responsible kinda thing.” He jokes.
You laugh. “Since when?”
“Since this morning,” he taps the pen against his desk. And it sounds like he’s on edge while pretending to be casual about it.
You step further into the office, lean against the doorframe. “Y’know you’re kinda scaring me recently.”
He hums. Looking back down at the paperwork on his desk. And you watch as his eyes flick to the small square paper you left on it last night.
You catch the squint of his eyes. The way they narrow harshly but then less to seem more normal…the way he clearly leans forward toward it. His hand moving faster than his voice can as he reaches for the note.
But you notice his hesitation too. The way his thumb trails the edge of it. The way he looks at you and the faint flicker of recognition in his eyes.
“How do y’know this name?” He asks.
“What?”
He turns the note toward you. Slowly. And your eyes land on the small note from last night. The one you scribbled down. Your handwriting, messy and slanted from exhaustion.
Charles Leclerc.
Your eyes widen in alert. And you laugh softly while you rub the back of your neck. “Oh…that. Yeah, well he came by last night. Said he was looking for you and that y’had a meeting or something…I didn’t think-“
“Don’t.” His words come out sharp. And then he takes a breath. “Don’t let that man in here again.”
You pause. “What?”
“If he shows up, you tell him that m’not here. You lock that front door. Do y’understand me?”
You tilt your head. “You’re kinda scaring me.”
“Good,” his eyes flick back to the note. He crumples it up and tosses it in the trash. “You should be.”
“Okay,” you say slowly. “Are y’gonna tell me who this guy is? Or am I just supposed to lock every door for someone in a suit?”
He laughs and it sounds much more real this time. “No, not really. Half our clients dress like bankers…could you imagine?”
You grin. “So what’s his deal then?”
He leans further into his chair. “Let’s just say he’s not the kind of client I want coming through that door again…Especially if you’re here alone.”
You tilt your head. “Bad history or something?”
“Something like that,” he rubs the pads of his fingers into his temple. “If he shows up, you call me. Don’t engage. Don’t even be charming…and for fuck’s sake do not talk art with him.”
You snort. “What…are you afraid he’ll critique my skills?”
“I’m afraid he’ll like you,” He says. “And that’s when things go sideways usually.”
“Relax,” you roll your eyes. “He’s just another random rich guy…probably pretends to be interested in art too.”
“Sure,” he says, breathing out a huff of air. “We’ll go with that.”
-
It’s rather odd how fast things start to feel almost normal again.
Like your boss goes back to disappearing in the middle of the day. And you just pretend that you don’t notice it.
But still it’s not the exact same.
It’s been what…like four, maybe five days?
Cause sometimes, when he is at the gallery and you pass his office, you swear his phone rings way more than it used to. And he’s way more quiet when he speaks. Like each word is heavy.
You catch tiny pieces of it once in a while. Names you’ve never heard. Numbers too. And once you swore you heard him say your name.
Maybe he’s having an affair…or maybe debt?
But anywho…he’s gone again today.
Didn’t even bother with the usual I’ll be back in an hour this time. You don’t question it. Spend the rest of the afternoon wiping down the front window. Answer a few calls from interested clients. Text your friends a “joking” cry for help.
By six, the gallery is practically empty. So you spend the last two hours sat behind the front desk, reading The Picture of Dorian Gray
Because nothing pairs better with boredom at work than a story about a man whose beauty hides something dark and rotten beneath.
The chime of the front door doesn’t even get your eyes off the page instantly.
Your first thought is probably just the client from earlier who left their umbrella. So you call out, like instinct…
“Sorry! We’re just about to clo…” You look up.
The words die on your tongue.
Because it’s him.
Charles.
Standing just inside the door like last week. Gray suit again…shirt opened just enough to show a glimpse of his collarbones. And the kind of tan that doesn’t just come from a beach trip. More like years of sun that he decided he deserved.
And he’s still so fucking beautiful.
“Bonsoir,” he says. Again. Same word. Low.
You blink. Once….twice. “You again.”
And it earns you that tilt of his mouth again. Like last week. “Me again.”
“Y’know…y’might need to start paying rent.” You try to be casual. Teasing almost. But it comes out way softer than you intend.
He steps further into the gallery. The front door shutting. “Would you prefer that?”
You roll your eyes. Shut your book. “I’d prefer you to stop scaring me every time you show up.”
He hums. Makes a show of how he looks around the gallery. You watch his gaze move over the art but you know he’s not really looking at any of it. “Your boss isn’t here.”
“Wow…y’really do your homework, huh?”
“No car outside…” He shoves his hands into his pickets. “His office lights are off too.”
“What are you…stalking the place?”
“Observing.”
You snort. “Y’know most people would probably like say uh, I don’t know something like I was just walking by or something in that realm…but sure, let’s go with observing. S’not creepy or anything.”
He gives you that amused look again. “You still talk a lot.”
“Still?” You gasp at him. “That’s not new information. Thought we’ve already established that. Y’remember last week when you scared me to death?”
He steps even closer. You don’t move from behind the desk. Mostly out of habit but also safety. Because you don’t trust your legs to stay solid around him.
You can basically feel him more than so see him as he stops right at the edge of your desk. His cologne making way to you.
And he’s calm. Hands in his pockets. Stare settling right on you.
You can basically feel your heart in your fucking throat under his gaze.
You breathe out.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray, hm?”
You tilt your head. “What?” Brain a step behind…like it seems to be whenever he’s near.
He nods his head toward the book on the desk in front of you. Eyes dragging over the cover of it.
“A bit dark, no?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Who you ask,” your fingers trail over the cover. “I think its honest…like everyone’s got their own version of a portrait somewhere, y’know?”
“And what do y’think mine would look like?” His eyes meet yours.
You try to think of something clever. But the words stay stuck in your throat.
“I think….” You trail off. Feeling like a deer under headlights in his gaze. “You’d never let anyone paint it….too much…uh, control.”
His mouth curves. Just a bit.
“Control,” he repeats. Like he’s tasting the word for the first time, “Y’say it like its some kind of flaw.”
“I didn’t…” you start, but cut yourself off. Take a second to think.
And he’s still staring at you with that steady and calm stare. The kind of stare that feels like he’s burrowing himself beneath your skin. Studying you.
“No…uh, I didn’t mean….” You fluster. “S’just an observation.”
“Observations are never just.” His voice low. “Y’make them to see a reaction usually.”
“So y’think I have some ulterior motive?”
“Yes.”
You laugh. Quick. Clearly somewhat nervous. Eyes falling back to the book cover. “Y’give me too much credit.”
“No,” he says. Pauses for a bit. “I don’t think I give you enough.”
The words land heavy. And you look back up at him before you can stop yourself. He’s still standing at the edge of the desk. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted a bit. Waiting.
Not waiting for some kind of answer. No. Waiting to see what you’ll do next.
“You…y’can’t be here.” You say fast. “You’re not supposed to…this isn’t…” You struggle to find the words.
“But here I am, no?” He interrupts. Voice awfully gentle.
The room feels somewhat smaller with him this close.
“You’re going to get me fired,” you say. Mostly joking. But not completely a lie either.
“If you manage to get fired,” he grins. “I’ll hire you.”
You blink at him. “Doing what?”
“Work.” He says simply. Like he just explained an entire job’s definition.
“How generous of you.” You cross your arms against your chest, lean back further into the chair.
“So,” He glances back at the walls. Taking in all the artwork. “Where’s your boss tonight?”
The question wants to be casual. But it lands too direct. Too interested.
“Home,” you say. “I think.”
“You think?”
“S’not my job to track him.”
He smiles. “Maybe it should be.”
You’re a little breathless as you explain your job description. “I just keep the gallery running,” you say. A little flustered because the room always feels 10x smaller with him in it. And that is what you do. Schedules…assign shipments…find donors…find buyers. “I book the openings, quadruple check all of the catalogs, keep the events running, all those little things…y’know? My boss has the ideas, so to speak…I…uh, I make them happen.”
He listens. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t frown or smile.
“Sounds like you’re useful, yeah?” He says. Voice low. “Necessary.”
You relax a bit. “Yeah.” You force a smile.
He shifts on his feet. And the light of the gallery catches on the edge of his jawline…the line of this throat. For a second, you think he’s gonna change topics. But instead, he glances at the painting above your desk.
“It’s not his gallery,” he says. Casually. “It’s mine.”
The room tilts.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Yours?”
He hums. “Every inch of it. Every piece that comes through the doors. Every name. Every single person.”
And his eyes narrow. Like he’s calculating. “Y’don’t know this?”
“No…I…”
“He didn’t tell you.” He states.
You shake your head.
“Do y’know what happens,” he leans closer, “to men who build things with my money…only to forget who built them?”
“I…uh, I…m’not….”
“You’re not him.” He shrugs. Then softer, “I know.” He straightens his shoulders. “But y’work for him…so m’gonna need you to deliver him another message.”
He leans in. You swallow.
“Tell him that m’done being patient…that I don’t like being lied to. And then tell him…” he pauses. His tone dropping. More dark…scarier. “If he’s still planning on not listening, I’ll come collect my answers in person.”
Your eyes widen.
His mouth curves. “You got that?”
You nod.
And then he’s slipping a single hand into his pocket. Fingertips skimming the edge of your desk. Like it’s some reminder of how easily he could reach for you.
“Lock up when I leave.” He says…almost softly. “Wouldn’t want anyone dangerous walking in.”
-
The gallery looks a little too clean this morning.
You unlock the front door. Hesitate for a small moment before stepping inside. The floors look more polished than normal. White walls glowing.
You tell yourself to get over it.
It’s fine. You’re fine.
The first thirty or so minutes are spent pretending to work. Responding to emails…invoices…curatory schedules. You even make a cup of coffee but it ends up going cold before you even touch it.
Tell him I’m done being patient.
You close your eyes. Inhale. Exhale.
You decide that Charles Leclerc is not real. Not in the daylight. He’s more like some type of hallucination in a neat tailored suit.
Then the door swings open.
And your boss walks in like he’s running late. His sunglasses on, shirt all wrinkled…phone pressed against his ear. And he looks….high-strung. On edge.
“Morning,” you say.
He hums, gives you a nod. Totally distracted as he hangs up his phone. Muttering something you can’t quite catch under his breath.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine,” he says. Drops his keys onto the counter by you. “Normal. Just a normal day, yeah?”
“You sure?” You raise a brow.
“Yes.”
And then he’s walking across the gallery, straight to his office. But he stops about halfway to his door. Pulls something out of his back pocket and stares at it. Then shoves it back away.
You feel your stomach start to sink a bit.
Because something just feels off.
You glance around your desk. Looking for anything different. And that’s when you see it.
An envelope sitting neatly tucked near the corner. Matte black. No postage or logo. Just your name.
You pick it up slowly. Thumb brushing around the edges of it. And you can tell the paper is expensive. Because its thick. Heavy.
And there’s only one thing inside. A small white card.
He has seventy-two hours.
But underneath it…smaller. Like it wasn’t meant to be seen at all.
A phone number.
You stare at it long enough. The font of the card is neat and elegant. Because of course it fucking is. You can practically feel and hear the arrogance in the letters.
Your stomach twists. And you somehow spend the rest of the day pretending that the card doesn’t exist.
Which surprises you because it sits on your desk like a sore fucking thumb. And then you even shove it into one of the desk drawers at some point in the day…but it only makes the temptation worse.
By six, you think you’ve opened the drawer more than seven times.
And by eight, well you’ve given up pretending to ignore it. So you pulled it out. Tucked it into your bag.
By midnight, you’re sitting cross legged on your couch in your pajamas with your phone pressed to your ear.
“Bonsoir,” the word curls lazily into your ear.
You blink at your phone. “Bonsoir? Really? What are you some fuckin villain?”
“You called me,” he says.
And you take note of how he sounds relaxed. Like he’s probably leaning back against a wall. Or a chair. And you can hear the sound of a lighter clicking off to the side.
“You called me,” you mimic under your breath. Now pacing your living room. “Yeah, because you left some fuckin cryptic note on my desk like m’auditioning for some secret service job! Do you even realize how sketchy that envelope looks? Some of our visitors probably think I’m being certified stalked by some kind of stationary brand.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
His grin widens. “Being stalked by a stationary brand?”
You let out a breath of air. “Not yet. But y’know…the day is young.”
“It’s past midnight,” he says. And you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Exactly.”
You switch the phone to your other ear. And he’s quiet for a few seconds. Which does nothing but make the pulse feel heavier in your throat.
“You took your time.”
You blink. “Hm?”
“To call.” He says. “I started to think…that maybe you were….ill.”
And the way he pauses after the word ill is almost too smooth. Like he’s testing it. And it almost sounds genuine.
You let out a small laugh. “Ill? That’s adorable….Did you picture me in bed with the flu?” You tease. “Pale and helpless? All wrapped in blankets? Maybe tissues everywhere?”
“Something like that.” He says. “I don’t think I’d use the word helpless.”
Your brows lift. “No? What word would you use then?”
A pause. Then you hear the faint clink of ice in a glass. “Distracting.”
You almost laugh. And you feel your cheeks redden. “Oh.”
He hums. Like he can hear the smile that you’re trying to hide. And then you’re clearing your throat. “Okay…well, anyways…the note.”
“What about it?”
You press your lips together. Popping them. “I don’t know…maybe I don’t know, maybe you can start with the whole what it actually means?”
And there’s a long pause on his end. You hear the sound of him exhaling.
“Why?” He says.
You frown. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because you left it on my desk,” you say. “That’s kind of making it my business now, yeah? Especially when you’re the one coming in at night for me to leave notes.”
“No.” He corrects you. “It makes it your curiosity. Not really your business.”
You roll your eyes. Sit down on your couch. “Oh, great…how mysterious of you.”
He laughs under his breath. “Y’seem very determined for answers.”
“Yeah, well you’re annoying when you dodge them.”
“Maybe I just like watching you try.”
You run a hand through your hair. “Try what?”
“To make me talk.”
You sigh. “Look…m’not trying to get your life story here. I just want to know if m’working in the middle of some weird fucking feud that’s putting me in some sort of danger. Because m’gonna be honest…with the way my boss has been acting the past few weeks…and you just appearing into the gallery late at night. Something feels off.”
He’s quiet for a bit. Like he’s really taking the time to soak in your words. “You’re not the one in danger.”
You pick at the pulled string on the end of your pajamas pants. “And m’just supposed to trust that?”
“No,” he shrugs. “You’re just supposed to trust me.”
You laugh. “Coming from the guy who leaves cryptic death notes on my desk…that’s really reassuring.”
“You called.”
You fight back a smile. “You really just don’t know when to quit….do you?”
“Apparently not….especially when it’s you on the other end of the line.”
And suddenly, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight…the room feels way too warm.
-
It’s late enough at night that the city has gone dark. The streets have gone quieter…aside from a few cars passing by.
And you’ve been tangled in the blankets on your couch for a few hours. A glass of wine half-drunken still sitting on the coffee table in front of you. A book sits open on your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in the last fifteen…maybe thirty minutes.
Because you’re not really reading.
You’re waiting.
Not that you’d admit it.
But when your phone buzzes against the couch cushion…your heart fucking jumps.
Same number as the other night.
You let it ring a few times…because your self-respect is important…or whatever.
And then you’re answering. “Hello?”
“Bonsoir,” his voice spills into your ear lazily.
And it’s not even a greeting. It’s a temperature. Your cheeks warming before you can even mentally deny it.
You let your head fall back against the couch cushion. “You and that fucking word.”
“Y’called me last time,” he chuckles. It’s low and deep. You imagine him slouched in some leather chair behind a desk for some reason. Shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbow. Hair damp from a shower or something. Probably sitting like a man who’s used to people waiting on him. “Figured I’d return the favor.”
You tuck the phone closer to your ear. Rolling to your side so that it rests between the couch cushion and your ear. “Y’mean y’got impatient that I haven’t called you since?”
“Possibly.”
You close your eyes. God. His voice in your ear like that should be fucking illegal.
“Possibly,” you repeat. “Well…Here I am, yeah? M’alive…mostly healthy…at least I think. I haven’t been to the doctor in a long time though, which is definitely bad for me but I just haven’t found the time to go the past few months…but yeah, mostly healthy. Not dying.”
You’re talking too fast. You know it. He definitely knows it.
But you don’t stop. Especially in his presence.
You hear that soft exhale he seems to do often with you. Something that’s between a sigh and a laugh.
He finds you amusing.
“Well, m’glad you think you’re healthy,” his voice is low. And you hear the pop of some glass opening…the sound of a liquid pouring. You imagine him pouring a whiskey or something. Seems on brand. “I prefer you this way.”
Your stomach flips in a way it definitely fucking shouldn’t.
You swallow. “Y’know…that sounds awfully like a compliment.”
You can hear him swallow. Like he’s sipping the whiskey (you assume that he poured). And its silent for a moment.
You picture him leaning back in a leather chair. One arm bent, holding the phone at his ear. The other dangling on the arm rest with the glass in hand. Eyes focused on something straight ahead probably.
“Keep talking,” he mutters. “Maybe you’ll hear another one.”
The phone slips off the cushion because you move your head in reaction to his words. Like you can’t believe he’s saying this.
He can hear it. The sudden rustle of the phone sliding agains the fabric. The sound of the blanket slipping…the sound of your phone as it slides off the couch cushion. And your voice…a frantic oh fuck as you scramble for it.
A thud.
A few moments of fumbling.
And then the phone is back at your ear. Your breathing uneven. And he’s definitely fucking smiling now.
You try to sound smooth. Normal. But you don’t. “Oh…wow…okay, so uh…we’re doing that now, hm? Like compliments and all that…this is…this is uh, new.”
Theres a pause.
A warm pause.
He doesn’t rush to answer. He lets you settle. You picture the smirk on the corner of his lips already.
“Does it bother you?”
You sit up straighter. “Bother me? Uh…no…no…I mean, like I wasn’t expecting it, y’know? I mean…you don’t really seem like the sentimental type.”
“I wasn’t being sentimental.” His voice is even. Measured.
And your stomach is in fucking knots at this point.
“Oh…” your voice is small. “So these are…like normal and practical compliments?”
You can fucking hear is smile at this point.
“If it helps y’sleep at night, chérie…we can call them whatever you’d like.”
You drag a hand down your face.
-
Charles thought he was being generous.
Seventy two hours.
And your boss wasted it. Wasted it perfectly.
Every hour….every warning…every silent and small chance Charles gave him.
The basement of the gallery is a bit colder tonight. Not as cold as outside. But the kind of aching cold that can only come from concrete floors and walls themself. The air just feels damp.
And the single fluorescent overhead light flickers and buzzes.
It makes the whole room feel sketchy.
Your boss stands in the middle of it all. Looking like a man who has dug his own grave and has only just realized he’s standing in it already.
His shirt is wrinkled. Hands are shaking. And the dark circles under his eyes are a full on give away to someone who has not rested properly in weeks.
And Charles steps off the final basement stair with a slow, unhurried pace of someone who doesn’t need to hurry. Of someone who’s not non danger.
His footsteps echo against the pavement lightly. Posture straight and elegant. Sleeves rolled to the forearms.
Your boss swallows hard.
“Ch…Charles…I….please…just listen, I…”
“Non,” Charles says. Rather gently.
He walks closer. “You had seventy-two hours.” He says. “And I wanted to see what you’d do with them.”
He stops in place about a foot away.
“Unfortunately,” Charles stares at him, “you behaved just as I expected.”
You boss stammers. Voice shaking. “I…I can fix this…I swear…”
“Fix it?” Charles laughs once. But it’s dry. Sharp. “Mon ami….y’couldn’t fix a fucking loose nail. Let a lone a criminal paper trail.”
He circles him once, footsteps deliberate, tucking a cigarette in between his lips and lighting it.
“You stole three originals,” Charles says. “Three. Not one…which might have been forgivable as some sort of desperation. Not two which could show panic. But three.” He clicks his tongue. Takes a quick inhale of the cigarette. “Three is ambitious.”
Your boss’s breath hitches. “I…I didn’t know they belonged to you..”
“Non,” Charles narrows his eyes. “Tu ne sais rien….you knew nothing.”
He blows a ribbon of smoke, staring at your boss through it.
“But let’s get something straight,” Charles says, flicks the ash off his cigarette to the floor. Pacing in a circle still. “You didn’t steal the art….No…that would imply that you had the taste for it.”
His lips pull into some cruel, twisted smile. It’s humorless.
“No…you stole the money it was washing.”
Your boss shakes his head. And Charles can see it land in his brain. The terror.
Good.
He takes one las drag of his cigarette. Drops it to the ground. Crushes it beneath his showe.
Then, with no warning. No sound. Not even an ounce of hesitation. Grabs your boss by the throat and drives him backwards. Smashing him into a random stack of wooden crates.
The impact ugly.
Your boss gasps. Wheezes. Chokes. Hand clawing at Charles’s wrist but not even remotely strong enough to do anything about it.
Chalres leans in. Voice low.
“You funneled the money through my galleries. Thought that I wouldn’t notice, hm?” Your boss squeezes his eyes shut. “Thought you could just pocket it. Little by little…..petits morceaux…tiny bites, non?”
He clicks his tongue.
“Petits morceaux become noticeable when someone greedy starts swallowing whole though.”
Your boss tries to speak. “Charles…I…I was going to put…to put it back…”
“Don’t lie,” He says sharply. “You were going to keep going until the numbers went red…until it was enough to get her blamed.”
Guilt washes over your bosses face.
“Yes,” Charles lips thin. “She does the numbers…all of the intake forms…the donation logs. She’s the one signing off on nearly every paper….you really think you’d get this by me? That I wouldn’t know what’s going on in one of my own galleries?”
Charles leans in closer.
“Y’tried to make her the fall guy for a scheme you barely understood.”
Your boss tries to speak.
Charles doesn’t let him. No. Instead he hauls him right up again, punches him in the stomach. And it’s the kind of precision of someone who knows exactly where to hit in order to knock the wind out of someone.
Your boss folds in half. Choking.
Charles steps around him.
“You forged her initials on some of the forms.”
Another hit. Charles slams his knee right into the man’s ribs.
“You used her login.”
He shoves him to the floor.
“You routed the dirty money through. Accounts that I….I let you have access to.”
Charles kicks him. Hard. It sends him sliding against the concrete a bit.
“And you thought I wouldn’t notice?”
Your boss tries to crawl backward, his palms pressing into the concrete floor. But Charles catches him by the ankle, drags him back to the center of the room. Flips him onto his back. Presses his foot right against his sternum.
Enough to hurt. Enough to crush bone if he felt like it.
“You,” Charles says,” are not smart enough to lie and steal from me. And you definitely are not smart enough to use her to cover your tracks.”
Your boss cries out.
“Y’know, the only reason you’re alive right now?” Charles softens his voice. “Because you’er going to repay every single fucking cent you stole…before I take you apart. Piece by piece.”
“You’ll die when I say you die.” Charles mutters.
Charles adjusts the sleeves of his shirt. Lifts his foot off to stand normal. Tilts his head as he looks down at your boss.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice the change in numbers, yeah?” Charles practically snarls. “And you tried to frame the only innocent hand in the entire fucking chain.”
He leans down one more time. Grabs the man by the jaw.
“If you ever…ever…go near her again,” he clicks his tongue. “Well, I’ll just make sure you never see the daylight again.”
He lets go.
Your boss’s head falls back to the concrete floor.
Charles glances up. Not because you’re there or anything. No…the gallery above is silent and dead. Closed hours ago.
But his mind still goes to you.
Not the version of you who files all day…forgets to eat…and curses at the computer occasionally like it has some vendetta against you.
No…he thinks of the softer parts.
He imagines you in your apartment. Probably in mismatched socks or something….that little humming noise you make when you’re focuses on something.
He imagines your voice.
God. Your voice.
That breathy way you say hi when you don’t expect him. The way your thoughts spill out before you even know what you’re saying.
He runs a hand down the front of his shirt. The same hand that he used moments ago to beat up a man.
And then his eyes flick to the pathetic man sprawled on the floor by his feet. The man panting and trembling. Face swollen. Blood smeared across his face and jaw. Dripping onto his shirt.
Charles studies him. Unimpressed.
“Regarde-toi,” he spits.
Your boss tries to respond. But Charles raises a hand. Silencing him.
Behind Charles, two of his men stand in the shadows. Silent. Disciplined. Watching.
Charles doesn’t turn as he speaks. Just stares at your boss pathetically on the ground.
“Clean this,” he commands. “Make sure he understands exactly what will happen to him if he’s late with a single fucking cent.”
One of the men steps closer. “Alive?”
Charles shrugs. “For now.”
-
The lights are already on.
And you decide that’s the first red flag of the day.
Because your boss barely turned them on. Sometimes he’d forget entirely and then you’d catch him squinting at new sculptures or pieces like he’s trying to read font size 0.5.
You drop your bag onto the desk gently. Eyes flicking to your boss’s office.
His door is cracked. Just barely. But enough for it to feel like someone’s there. Like its intentional.
You feel a difference in the place like you notice when somethings been moved or misplaced. It’s not dangerous. Just different.
You clear your throat a bit as you approach, and knock lightly…carefully on the door.
“Hey…” you start, nudging the door open wider. “Did y’forget to…”
You stop speaking. Your brain falters.
Because it’s not your boss behind the desk.
It’s Charles.
Charles in a dark shirt with his sleeves rolled up…which you think is just on purpose at this point. Charles leaning back in the chair like he’s been there for years. Charles with the slightest curve on the corner of his lips. Like he’s been waiting for your arrival since he sat in the chair.
“Bonjour,” he says, voice warm.
For a few moments, all you can do is stare.
“Wh….what?” You blink. “What are you…what are you doing here?”
Charles leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. “Working.
No. No no no. No. Absolutely not.
“Working?” You repeat, stepping into the office now. “You’re….you don’t work here.”
“But don’t I?”
You breathe in. “No. You definitely don’t. Not unless something concerning happened overnight…and if that is the case, then…then I would really need you to tell me the context before I faint.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. No. He just watches you. Like really watches you. With his eyes tracking the way you shift your weight from one foot to another. The way your eyes squint a bit more and crinkle at the corners.
“So you’re talkative in the morning too?”
“M’talkative. Period.” You snip back.
He nods once. Like it makes perfect sense and he isn’t at all surprised by this.
“Your boss…” he plays with a pen on the desk, “won’t be in today.”
Your fingers twitch at your sides. “Okay…well, can you…can you define won’t be in? Because in my mind, that just means like a sick day…but any time he’s taken a sick day, you never just randomly appeared our of thin air and take over his office. So m’just trying to understand the situation here.”
“Extended leave.” Charles clarifies.
You swallow. “Extended as in…”
“Indefinite.”
You stare at him. Not at the desk he’s sitting behind. Not in the chair he’s sitting in. Not even the pen twisting around his fingers. Him.
Because you only just recently found out he was the owner of this place to begin with.
“I…” you breathe out, cross your arms along your chest. “I just like thought you owned things in the kind of rich and mysterious way. Like y’know people who own stuff but never touch it or barely know about it kinda thing?”
His lips twitch. “You sound disappointed.”
“No.” You say fast. “No…not disappointed. Just a little caught off guard. There’s a difference.”
“Oui,” he agrees. “There is a difference….one of them makes your voice shake a bit.”
You narrow your eyes. “S’the air conditioning in here.”
“The air conditioning isn’t even on.”
You glare harder.
And he just smiles. Then, he stands. Steps toward you with his hands shoved into his pockets. Looking down at you with a kind of warmth that does not match the professional setting and situation you two are now in.
“I thought,” he mutters, eyes glancing at your lips for a millisecond, “that it was time for me to come in…y’know I saw things for myself and didn’t like a few things. So now, I can work closer to what is…important.”
He glances at your lips again. Your blood warms.
“Y’can’t say stuff like that.” You whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like whatever that just was!” You wave your hands around the air.
“Why?” He steps an inch closer.
“Don’t…don’t do that. Don’t act dumb….it doesn’t suit you.” You mutter.
He laughs. Not dramatically or anything. But that low and warm laugh that makes your skin flush.
“Is that a compliment?”
“No, it’s a problem.” You correct. “This is a workplace…my workplace. And now apparently, yours too. So we need to…we need rules or boundaries or something, yeah?”
“Boundaries,” he repeats. Like he’s tasting the word for the first time ever. “You want boundaries.”
“No. I need boundaries.” You emphasize. “Because I literally ramble whenever you’re around, and then y’look at me like that…and now you’re telling me you sign my checks and work in the same room with me on a daily basis?”
His eyes soften a bit. “I see.”
“Do you…like really?”
He nods once. “Yes. If we must be professional….” He pauses. Lets the time stretch so that you can feel the weight of the word. So he can weigh his thoughts. “I…I can do that.”
“Oh.” You swallow. “Well, good.”
He smiles. But it isn’t polite at all. And it’s not reassuring either.
pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader
summary: in which you and your ex-boyfriend's older brother somehow double book the same villa or you and charles find yourselves slipping into dangerous territory while vacationing together
warnings: cute, angsty kinda, fluffy, some smut (not really graphic sorry), tension!, some jealousy...NOT PROOFREAD!
word count: ~9.2k
author's note: hi...it's been so long since I've written this but I hope you all enjoy!! xoxo sorry for the late posting :(
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This island almost feels like its some sort of secret.
With its whitewashed walls burning from the sun, stone paths, and the bright blue water crashing against the shores. A few fishing boats rocking in the waves.
You arrive already slightly sunburned from the previous island. Three drinks deep from the beachside tavern where the wine was a bit too sweet for your liking. But it went down easy. Your hair is still wet from the ocean earlier. And your bag is slung over your shoulder as you climb the few steps to the rental.
The villa is tucked behind a little wall and a few olive trees. Bright blue shutters. And exactly as pictured when you booked it online all those weeks ago.
The latch on the gate sticks a bit and it takes you kicking it with your foot a little harder for it to give and open. You push into the villa, dropping your bags right onto the terracotta tiles at the entry way.
But you barely have a chance to exhale when you hear it. A kitchen cabinet closing. And a small qui est là.
You freeze.
And then a man appears. Wait.
Charles?
It takes a few moments for your brain to process it. Cause he’s barefoot like he’s already settled in. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower recently. And you decide that it has to be from a shower…and not the ocean…because the ocean would leave his hair too wavy and messy for it to look like how it is now.
The soft, worn grey t-shirt he’s wearing clings to the top of his arms in a way that makes your stomach dip. A pair of shorts hung low on his hips. And it makes him look casual. Almost careless. But only almost because Charles has never been truly careless.
Charles feels his brain outright stop. Because it’s you. Standing in the entryway.
No….impossible.
And his face is pure fucking shock. Brows drawn. Lips parted a bit. Eyes so wide it makes him look a bit younger for a few seconds. Until they harden again.
His gaze wanders over you. Your damp hair…the straps of your sundress slipping off one shoulder makes the slight sunburn you got look more prominent. Then, to your bag abandoned by the door. And you feel every glance like a fucking burn.
“….What?” He blinks hard. Like there’s something wrong with his vision and he’s trying to make sense of it. “What are you…what are you doing here?”
You let out a small laugh. Mostly because your nerves are tingling. “I….wait…what do you mean what am I doing here? I booked this place.”
His eyes trail you without a single inch of permission. He tells himself he’s just taking it all in. Confirming that it’s you. That you’re real. But it feels like more.
He tilts his head. And he looks genuinely lost. “No…that’s not possible. I booked it.” He even takes a second to look over his shoulder toward the kitchen. Like the fact that he’s already settled in and everything will back up his story.
You feel as if you’re on the edge of completely losing it. “That’s…that’s impossible.”
Charles throws his arms out, gestures to the rest of the villa. “M’literally here. Been here for a few days. All unpacked.” He waves a hand toward some of his shoes by the entry door, wallet and a few various items thrown on the table.
You throw your hands up. “And m’literally here with a suitcase and a confirmation email.”
Something changes in his expressions. Looks at you hard…like he can’t tell if you’re actually serious or just here to somehow fuck with him. And then digs his hands into his pockets. “Show me.”
Your brows lift. “Show you what?”
“Your booking.” His tone is clipped. But his accent slightly softens it that makes your chest feel a little tighter. And then he’s already pulling his own phone out, swiping away. “C’mon.”
You huff, but your hands are already moving for your bag. Grabbing your phone.
A few seconds later, you’re both standing awkwardly in the entry way of the villa. Shoulder to shoulder. Phones glowing.
“See?”
Charles frowns, tilts his screen toward you as he glances at yours.
You lean in a little closer. Eyes squinting to ready the tiny font. And your stomach drops. The address…the villa…similar dates…both of them booked weeks ago. Both confirmed.
You look at him. Failing to speak.
His mouth twists with disbelief…maybe a bit of irritation. “Putain….this…this can’t be real, right?”
You laugh. Incredulous to the situation. “We…we both booked the same place?”
He drags a hand through his hair. Mutters something in French under his breath before glancing back at you. “Apparently.”
For a long moment, you just stand there. Phone screens glowing in your face. The weight of the error sinking in. And the villa suddenly feels too small.
And all you can really think is what the fuck because…really…what the fuck are the odds? That our of all the fucking strangers in the world…all the islands in the mediterranean…it had to be him.
Your ex-boyfriend’s older brother.
Charles.
You let out a huff of air. “So, what? We just….fight it out, then? Flip a coin? M’not giving this up.”
Charles exhales slowly. Slips his phone back into his pocket. And for a second it looks like he’s about to argue. Because Charles would usually argue. But instead, he just flicks his head toward one of the hallways.
“There’s another bedroom.” His voice is clipped. Final. Like there’s no more space for a conversation. “So you’ll stay.”
You blink. A bit caught of guard. Mouth slightly agape. “Just like that? No arguments?”
He shrugs. But he’s not careless. “Why would we make this more complicated than needed? We both booked it…there’s two rooms. It’s fine.”
But he doesn’t sound fine. No. He sounds like he’s just decided that he can just barely tolerate it. His eyes flick over you. Assessing. And you recognize his wariness.
Because he thinks you broke Arthur’s heart.
And he doesn’t need to even say it out loud for you to know. Because you can see it in the way his jaw hardens. The way he will barely hold your gaze.
You nod once. Forcing a tiny…tiny…smile. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes. And then he’s turning and disappearing down the hallways without another glance. Shoulders still tight.
And beneath all this confusion and disbelief…he feels it. Something he crushes down the very moment it sparks. Because it’s you. Arthur’s ex. The girl who broke his little brother’s heart.
But he still feels it anyways. That low twist of heat in his stomach at the sight go you. That old and forbidden spark he’s never been able to shake.
And then he’s gone. Down the hallway. Grey t-shirt disappearing. A click of a door shutting.
You stand in the entryway like some fucking idiot. Bag by your feet. Phone in hand.
Like seriously….what the fuck?
Seriously. What are the actual… like mathematical odds that throughout the entire Mediterranean…with its thousands of villas and cobblestone villages…that you ended up here. In this situation.
With him.
-
You convince yourself that the sun is just fucking rude sometimes. It’s the first thing you think. Like even before you fully open your eyes.
Rude. With its bright rays bleeding across your face because the shutters of the windows barely do their job. The sheets are too hot. Your head is a bit heavy with last night’s wine.
You groan. Turn onto your stomach. Bury your head into the pillow for a minute. And pretend.
Pretend that it’s just you here. That yesterday was just some fucked up fever dream and you didn’t actually walk into the villa and find Charles fucking Leclerc barefoot in the same place. Blinking at you like you were some imaginary friend.
But it doesn’t last long. And eventually, you’re pushing yourself out of bed.
Coffee. That’s all you want right now. And maybe Charles to be gone. Like he doesn’t exist.
When you reach the kitchen, he’s surprisingly not there. But there is a note.
Propped against a half-empty water bottle. Paper torn unevenly like he just ripped it off some random notebook he found.
His handwriting across it.
Went out…back later.
- C
The note sits there. Smug as hell.
No hi. Or good morning. Not even your name for crying out loud. Just clipped words that felt like they were pulled out of him with a pair of pliers.
You tilt your head. Blink at it. Read it again. Because surely he left out a line…right? Something polite. Something that feels more normal.
Then, you’re laughing. A little disbelief. A little pitchier than normal. Press the pads of your fingers into your forehead. “Seriously?”
Because he wrote a fucking note. Like you’re both seventy-something year olds who don’t use technology. Like you’re in the 70s or something. Like you don’t have each others phone numbers still saved in your phones. Tucked in between contacts you’ve both never deleted out of laziness. Or maybe masochism.
A fucking note.
You drag your thumb over the last few letters. Taking not of the way the ink bleeds a little heavier there. Like maybe he paused…or wanted to write more. But didn’t.
He cut himself off.
The most Charles thing in the world.
And suddenly you feel like some teenager again. Stretched out on the lumpy couch in Corsica with the guestbook in your lap. Flipping through all the writings from summers before yours. Charles’s neat and impatient handwriting beside Arthur’s crooked and crazy doodles.
You traced his name back then. Though, you’d never admit it.
You groan. Because why the fuck are you staring at his handwriting like it has some ulterior motive. Like it means something?
You pour yourself a coffee. Hands fumbling with the machine like you’ve forgotten how to function or something. Charles’s mug already drying upside down on the rack near the sink. Plain white. Small chip at the rim. Of course. Charles has always been practical to where its almost boring. And it makes your chest ache for some reason.
You imagine him out in the town. Walking too slow or with his head tipped down. Buying bread or something that he doesn’t really need just to avoid being here. To avoid you.
Back later.
As if you needed the reminder.
-
The heat in Corsica is the kind that sticks. Fucking relentless. The air smells like grilled fish and lemon. You’re glued to one of the wicker chairs on the terrace. Arthur sprawled beside you, his legs kicked up on the coffee table and a glass of wine balancing on his stomach like he’s having some type of ‘no spill’ contest with himself.
And he’s in the middle of some story you’ve definitely heard before. About one of his races…the after party…some game…you’ve lost tracked honestly. His hands flying around and his grin is wide.
You nod. Hum. Laugh at the right times.
But you know the ending. And you know that Arthur always…always…stretches the truth a little too far.
And then Charles’s voice cuts in. Cool. Flat. “That’s not how it happened.”
Arthur snaps his head towards Charles across the table. “It is too how it happened.”
Charles doesn’t even bother glancing up. His gaze is too focused on the corner of the label of his beer bottle that’s slightly peeling off from all the condensation. “No…it’s actually not.”
You smirk. Because he’s right.
Arthur told this one a few weeks ago. With the same smug laugh. The same pauses. “Y’definitely told it like this last time,” you poke Arthur’s knee with your toe. “Even when you cried when you lost.”
Arthur lets his head fall back against the cushion with a soft groan. “Unbelievable y’know that?…y’two ganging up on me like this?”
Charles glances up then. Not at Arthur. But at you. Just a quick flick of his eyes. A once over. “At least she pays attention.”
It’s stupid. Nothing. A line so basic that it shouldn’t even be acknowledged. But its the way he says it. Low and precise. Like he wants it to mean something. Makes it land much heavier than it should.
You try to play off the flutter in your stomach by rolling your eyes. Hoping it’ll distract you.. “You’re insufferable too, y’know that right?”
His mouth curves a bit. Barely. Like he’s enjoying whatever this is. Like there’s some secret that only you two are in on.
-
You tell yourself I’ll make the most of it. That him being gone is actually a gift. A blessing in disguise.
So you move through the day slowly. With ease.
Breakfast…if you can even call it that…on the patio. A peach that’s gone a bit too soft. And a piece of toast that you stole from Charles (oopsie) with the last bit of the strawberry jam you got from the last island. You sit cross-legged on one of the cushioned chairs. Chewing lazily while you pick at the edge of the table’s paint thats practically flaking off from the sun.
You bring your book out to the pool. Lay yourself flat on one of the loungers. Read until the words blur onto the page. Eyes skimming the same paragraph again and again until you give up entirely. Dropping the book face down on your chest and squinting up at the sky.
Eventually, the pool calls your name. You dip in once…again a few hours later. And any other time after that was just because your skin would get too hot.
Later, you slice into another slightly bruised peach you brought with you. Juice trickling down your wrist before you can bother catching it.
And by the time the sun leans toward night…hanging much lower in the sky. Your hair is tangled and dry. Skin bronzed and warm.
You sprawl into one of the chairs on the patio. Book open…but ignored again. A glass of wine rests on the arm rest of the chair.
And then you hear it.
The opening of the front gate. Shoes on the stone. A low mutter of a curse which is then followed by the clatter of something falling to the ground.
You don’t glance up, but your ears are greedy. Trying to hear every sound.
“Merde,” he mutters. Lower. Theres a rustle of bags. A scuff of his shoes as he crouches down to grab whatever fell. Something clinks in the bag, then another.
You can practically picture it. Him balancing too many items at once. Refusing to just put a bag down and make two trips. Because Charles would never. His jaw is probably tight. That familiar crease between his brows whenever he’s flustered or focused.
A lemon rolls close enough that you could probably stretch your foot out and stop it. But you don’t. You just catch a glimpse of it stop near the leg of your chair.
Your mouth curves.
“Don’t even,” he says. Like he can just feel the smile without even looking at you. His voice is clipped. Not mean. Just tired.
You let your head fall against the back of the chair as you look at him. Nonchalant, almost. “Didn’t even say anything.”
His hair is kinda to his forehead now. His t-shirt fades a bit darker by the collar due to the heat. And his eyes meet yours for a moment too long. And then he’s exhaling while shaking his head.
The bags drop to the patio table with a clink.
You swirl your wine glass. Watching. “Y’raid the whole town or something?”
He doesn’t look at you. Just begins to pull stuff from the paper bags. “Needed a few things.”
“Looks like much more than a few.”
“Didn’t know how much you’d eat.”
It lands like throwing a stone into water. Makes you pause…like actually pause. The wine stops swirling. And for a moment, you think your ears are making things up.
He’s still not looking at you. Too busy lining stuff up on the table like each lemon needs to be perfectly spaced. But you feel that tiny slip. That little admission tucked inside something that should’ve been normal.
Cause if he really hated you…hated this…why would he bother?
You clear your throat a bit. “Sooo considerate of you,” you try to sound normal. Sound a little teasing. But it comes out too soft. Like gratitude.
He shrugs his shoulders. Still won’t meet your eyes. “S’nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing.
Honestly, it’s the fucking opposite.
And you take note of the way his hand lingers a little longer than needed on the bottle of wine before setting it town on the table. The way his jaw ticks a bit. The way he’s barely met your eyes since arriving back.
And the bottle itself…burgundy…a name you know all too well. Because its the same kind of wine you used to drink at all those family dinners. Whenever Arthur would tease on and on about how you were picky but still poured the wine anyways. The bottle you’d always reach for first…even if fancier bottles were already opened.
You can’t help the twitch of your lips. And you hate how hard your heart presses against your ribs. Like it’ll give you away.
-
The buzzing of the bugs don’t stop. It’s like a constant buzz reverberating from the olive trees. Your coffee has already gone lukewarm from sitting on the table too long earlier, but you hold the mug anyways. Like it’s some accessory. Anchoring you.
Across from you, Charles looks like he’s always belonged. An ankle hooked over the other. That damn notebook he seems to always have on him is shut, but it’s not far from his reach. Sunglasses are shoved into his hair.
Neither of you are speaking much. Just listening to the buzzing. The crash of the waves against rocks a little down the hill.
It’s not unbearable silence. But it’s not necessarily comfortable either.
“Sooo…you’re here on vacation?”
He makes a low sound in his throat. Not yes…not no.
You lift a brow. “Alone?”
He places his mug down on the table. Lets his head fall back a bit so his face is right at the sky. “For now.”
You squint. “For now?”
His gaze wanders to you. Unblinking. “Maman…Lorenzo…Arthur.” He says their names carelessly. But his eyes stay locked on you. Watching out for any twitch or flicker. Like he’s trying to dissect the way you react to Arthur’s name. “Meeting them at another island next week. I came early.”
Arthur.
Your fingers twitch, but you don’t give a reaction. “Right,” your voice is casual. Maybe a little clipped. “Of course.”
He picks his mug up to take a slow sip. Swallows. Sets the mug back down. “He’s different now.”
The words are simple. It has you furrowing your brow though. Because what’s that supposed to mean?
“Different how?”
Charles tilts his head like he’s considering if he should elaborate. And the sun catches across one of his cheekbones and eye…making the green of his eyes like a bit sharper. “Quieter….doesn’t let people in as easily.” His mouth shifts.
And the implication hangs there. He doesn’t say anything outright. But you can feel the weight of his thoughts. That its your fault.
You keep your shoulders straight. “People change, Cha….s’not like its anything new.”
He hums. Eyes still on you. “Some more than others.”
-
The apartment is too warm.
Goosebumps from your fever littered your skin. Your body couldn’t pick a temperature. Shivering beneath a blanket, sweating a few moments later.
The sheets smell faintly like Arthur from where he tossed and turned this morning. And the sound of the traffic outside in the streets below make your head pound more.
Arthur’s suitcase had rolled down the hall hours ago. Voice too bright and cheery as he kissed your forehead goodbye before leaving for his friend’s bachelor trip.
You barely move for the rest of the day. Aside from dragging yourself to the bathroom every once in a while to sit in the tub whenever you got too cold. The TV hums but you’re not paying attention. And the daylight turns into evening fast.
Your stomach growls but the thought of moving makes your body ache. So you don’t eat. You sip on some water that’s been sitting on the bedside table since before Arthur left this morning.
And you think you’ll finally….finally fall asleep.
But then you hear the sound of a key turning in the front door. And it has your eyes widening.
“Arth?” You croak out. Voice scratchy.
But all you here is the sound of the door quietly shutting again. Careful. Not the usual slam of Arthur’s arrival. Or the clatter of his keys dropping onto the entry way table.
And before you know it.
Charles.
Standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Jacket half unzipped. A bag hanging in one of his hands.
And for a moment, your brain doesn’t compute the fact he’s here. Because it doesn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be here. He’s never here.
He looks at you on the bed. Blankets twisted. Cheeks flushed pink. Eyes wide. And his brows pull together almost instantly. Concerned in a way Arthur’s never did.
Because Arthur brushes it off with a ‘you’ll live’ or ‘don’t be dramatic’. But Charles doesn’t so much as smile. Honestly, he barely breathes. He just takes in the sight of you. The glint of dried sweat on your forehead. The way your lips are parted, skin dry and cracked.
Concern.
So heavy that it makes his chest ache. Makes your chest ache too.
And then he’s moving. Like he suddenly remembered the bag in his hand. “I stopped on the way,” he mutters. Carefully placing it down on the bedside table and pulling out its contents. A box of medicine…some tea…some crackers…juice.
The corners of your mouth lift a little. “Did y’raid a pharmacy or something?”
“I didn’t raid,” he places everything neatly on the table. “I bought.”
And despite your fever and how you feel like you’re on the verge of dying, a small laugh pushes past your lips. Comes out broken, but still…a laugh. “You….Charles…since when do y’play nurse?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just twists the cap of the juice and sets it closer to you. Then looks at you, his jaw clenched a bit, but his eyes are soft. “Since Arthur isn’t here.”
You swallow the ache in your throat. Reach for the juice.
“Take these first,” Charles raises some of the medicine toward you. Tears open one of the packets for you when you struggle. And then presses the pills into the open palm of your hand. “Then tea, yeah? It’ll help.”
You shake your head. “So bossy.”
His mouth twitches. Like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “Y’mean efficient?”
And then he’s stepping out of the room to busy himself with the kettle in the kitchen.
-
The town here is like something that you only see in a piece of art. The smell of grilled octopus and citrus and salt linger the air. And when you see a group of older men playing cards beneath some awning, you slow down.
You don’t mean to stop. But one of them glances at you and waves you over. “Kalimera! S’hot out today, yeah?” The corners of his eyes crinkling from smiling.
You laugh. Nod along. Answer with a few clumsy Greek phrases you’d practiced and slightly learned during your time around here. And the entire table lights up like you just cured cancer.
Charles stands behind you. A hand shoved into his pocket. The other fanned against his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun. He doesn’t sit when your nearly dragged into one of the empty chairs. He just watches with his brows pulled tight. Jaw ticking whenever the men laugh too loud at whatever you say.
“Sit,” one of them orders him finally. Waving his hand to the chair beside you. “Kàthise!”
Charles shakes his head. Mutters something in French under his breath. But then another man is clapping his hand onto his shoulder, pushing him toward the chair with a strength no one would expect from a guy probably in his seventies.
You elbow him lightly, grinning. “Stop acting like making friends sucks, yeah?”
He mutters, “M’not here for this.”
And before you can respond, one of the women at the table is slapping a deck of cards down. Dealing out hands before either of you could object to playing. The rules are explained…though in fast broken English and Greek. But somehow you’re playing.
Laughing. Charles is looking at his cards like they’re the worst cards he’s ever seen. Full blown frown on his lips. And when you’re laughing at the look on his face, he gives you a glare that only makes you fall forward and laugh harder.
The game goes on. Olives and bread are passed down. Glasses of wine poured before you can refuse (not that you would anyways). A little plate of anchovies appears…sprinkled with some lemon and fried. You dare Charles to try one, which he narrows his eyes and a you’ll regret this but then eats one. Nearly chokes too.
One of the men points at you with his cigarette. A wide smile on his face whenever you try another broken, messed up Greek phrase. Clever girl!! Very clever. Lucky, too!
You laugh so hard you nearly spill the wine. “No, no…no trust me,” you wave your hands. “I’ve no idea what m’doing.”
“Shhh!” One of the women slaps the table. “Natural talent!!! See, you win!” She points out the tiny pile of random coins and a few olives (that are being used as fake chips of course) all stacked in front of you.
You grin. Look at Charles beside you. “Hear that, hm? Natural talent.”
Charles shakes his head. Gives you a fake frown. At least, you think its fake because it’s almost too thin. “Or they’re just like blinded by you or something…”
The table laughs. And one of the women leans over, pats your arm…mutters something in Greek too fast for you to even follow but her eyes are basically sparkling when you look at them.
“What’d she say?” You whisper.
Charles’s mouth twitches. Like he doesn’t want to smile but really can’t help it. “She said y’laugh with your whole face. And that it’s the reason you’re winning.”
Your cheeks redden. “Ridiculous, no?”
He leans a little closer. “S’true.”
And that one sentence is enough to make your throat go dry.
-
The beach is quiet today. Just a few locals, maybe a few couples sprawled beneath umbrellas, and the water crashing against the sand.
You’ve been here for about an hour already. Long enough for the sand to be stuck between your toes and in your hair.
Everything feels slow. Lazy. Easy.
Peaceful.
Until you hear the sand squeaking from behind you.
You glance over your shoulder. Charles is there.
Heading toward you with one of the striped blue towels from the villa slung casually over his shoulder. Sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. Shirtless.
He hesitates for a second when he notices your stare. But then keeps walking. Like he isn’t at all bothered.
You roll onto your side by the time he approaches. “Didn’t think I’d see y’down here.”
He shrugs and tosses the towel onto the sand right beside yours. “The pool was boring.”
You smile. Squint your eyes against the sunlight. “Didn’t think you’d ever experience boredom before.”
He lowers himself beside you. Elbows on his knees. Gaze on the water. “I…I usually don’t.” He huffs a breath.
“Riiiight. But even today was too quiet for Charles Leclerc, hm?”
His mouth twitches. “Always been so dramatic, haven’t you?”
“Always been so defensive, haven’t you?”
He hums. Glancing at you with the corners of his lips curled a bit before he looks away again. Back to the water.
The waves roll against the shoreline slow. Lazy. And you both fall quiet, enjoying the sound. Enjoying the warmth.
His legs are stretched out, toes dug into the sand. And you watch as he drags his hands through the sand. His other hand tapping against his thigh like he doesn’t know what else to do.
And although his sunglasses block his eyes from your vision, you can feel when he looks at you.
You pretend not to notice.
And after a bit, you stand. Brushing the sand from your body for no reason because it’ll just stick to you again. “Think I’m gonna go in.”
He hums. Doesn’t move. “Go ahead.”
“You don’t wanna swim?”
“Later,” He tips his head toward the sun. And he looks comfortable. Relaxed. “Go on…go play.”
Your lips twitch. “Y’make it sound like m’five years old or something.”
He doesn’t look at you. His head is still tipped back toward the sun, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Y’act like it sometimes, no?”
You laugh, but start heading toward the water with a shake of your head.
The water wraps around your ankles first. Cold and relieving from your warm skin. You walk in deeper, until your crouching down for the water to reach your shoulders. Dunking under for a second to soak your hair.
When you come up with your hair slicked back, you spot a guy. Maybe mid-twenties…dark hair…and a grin that you can see even from a distance.
“Beautiful day, yeah?” He says, his accent heavy but his voice is warm. Harmless.
You nod. “Definitely hard to beat.”
He waves his hand toward the horizon, “Best spot on the island right here…locals never tell the tourists about it.”
You grin. “Guess m’extra lucky then, yeah?”
“Must be,” his smile widens. Teasing. “Just visiting?”
You nod.
He hums. Leans a bit closer. “Y’should come to town tomorrow night. There’s music….small place near the port….good food, lots of wine…dancing.”
You laugh. Soft and polite. The sound of it carrying over the water.
And from the shore, Charles glances up from where he’d been laying on his back. An arm bent behind his head.
But now his eyes track the sound and immediately find you waist-deep in the water. Smiling. Talking to someone. A man.
And something twists in his chest. Not sharp or anything…just that familiar pull that seems to happen around you too often.
He tells himself it’s nothing and that you’re probably just being friendly.
He looks at the sand between his legs. Pushes his fingers through it. Tries to focus on it. His sunglasses slip a little lower on the bridge of his nose. He exhales once. Long.
Then he stands.
The sand sticks to the back of his calves. He bends to brush it off. Unhurried. Perfectly casual. Normal.
Except for the part where he’s walking toward the water without even deciding why.
He tells himself its the heat. The sweat forming on the back of his neck. Tells himself it has nothing to do with the man standing too close to you.
The tide wraps around his ankles. Cold. He doesn’t flinch though. Just keeps moving. And when it reaches his hips, he pushes himself under. Like habit.
You notice him when he’s within your peripheral vision. “Didn’t think y’were coming in already.”
He shrugs. “Changed my mind.”
You blink. Grin. “What happened to later?”
“It’s later now…isn’t it?”
He doesn’t look at the guy beside you. Not really. But he’s definitely aware of him. Like the way you’re aware of the sun burning the back of your neck. There. Annoying.
“Maybe I’ll see you later then, yeah?” The guy smiles softly at you. You give him a small smile and a nod.
Charles doesn’t move. Just stays half-submerged in the water. Watching as the guy leaves, the water rippling in his wake.
His jaw works once.
You’re still looking at the horizon of the water. Oblivious to the way Charles looks. The way his chest rises and falls.
“Friend of yours?” He asks. And he sounds so bored when he says it.
You shrug. “Just met him.”
He hums. Slicks his hair back. “He seemed….” He hesitates. “…friendly.”
You’re still not looking at him. You’re facing the sun. But Charles watches you. The drops of water clinging to you skin. The small curl of your lips.
And something twists beneath his ribs. Tight…stupid.
You eventually turn to him. And his face is neutral. “Y’okay?”
He blinks once. “Fine.” Then dunks himself under the water. And when he resurfaces, he runs a hand down his face. Slicks his hair back again. “Y’should head in soon…you’re burning up.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”
“M’serious.” His voice is clipped. “Y’don’t notice til it hurts.”
You shrug your shoulders. And neither of you say anything else for a while. Just float in silence as the waves crash.
And later, when you swim closer to the shore.
He follows.
-
The smell of tomatoes and basil fill the villa. Kitchen windows pushed open, a soft breeze pushing through.
You’re barefoot and perched on the counter with a glass of wine as Charles works over the stove. And there’s an ease in him that you haven’t seen in years.
He moves with ease around the kitchen. Wanders with a wooden spoon in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. The muscles of his forearms flexing with each stir of the sauce.
You shouldn’t be looking.
But it’s like you can’t help yourself.
He glances at you just as you bring your glass to your lips. And for a moment, it feels like the room gets smaller. To the smell of the food….the spoon scraping against the pan…the look between you two.
Then he clears his throat. “Y’just gonna sit there while I do all the work, hm?”
You roll your eyes. “M’providing ambiance.”
“Ambiance,” he repeats. The corners of his lips tugging up a bit. “Riiiight.”
And the way he says it, all quiet…like its some secret…makes your skin warm.
“Y’should be thanking me anyways…y’know for keeping y’company and all that.”
He turns back to the stove. A slight laugh pushing out. “Mm yeah? Can see you’re really pulling your weight here, aren’t you?”
“Exactly!” You set your glass on the counter. “M’supportive. Bet y’don’t even know how exhausting that can be.”
He hums and nods his head a bit. “Must be so hard…brutal.”
“Arthur used to say the same thing, y’know? Like when I’d sit on the counter.”
It makes Charles laugh a bit. “Yeah…bet he’d still burn all of it.”
You laugh too. “So true…he always got distracted.”
“Always,” Charles agrees. Smiling as he continues to stir the sauce. “Couldn’t focus on a task for more than five seconds at a time.”
There’s a pause in the kitchen. It’s not awkward. Just like…there. Familiar.
“Guess you’ve always been better at stuff.” You joke.
He glances over his shoulder. “Better?”
You shrug, pick up your wine glass again. “Y’know what I mean…you’ve always been so…” You gesture toward him. “…like steady…focused…responsible.”
He laughs under his breath. “Isn’t that just a nice way of saying boring?”
You grin. “Didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to.” He teases. Sets the wooden spoon down on the counter, turns to look at you. “Y’were always so opposite anyways.”
You tilt your head. “Opposite…how?”
He pretends to think about it. “Louder…Messier…”
“Sounds like you’re complaining.”
“M’not.” His lips twitch. “It’s just….uh, noticeable.”
Your stomach twists at that. Not in a bad way…just like you’re aware.
“Maybe y’need a little noise sometimes,” your voice soft.
He holds your gaze for a little. Then looks away, reaching to pick up the wooden spoon again.
“Maybe.”
-
You never expected him to actually come.
When you mentioned the live music in town, he barely even looked up from the book he was so-called reading.
You’re really gonna go because some guy told you to and then later when he said hope y’know it’s going to be packed…and then as you were slipping your earrings in about to leave didn’t realize y’liked these kinds of things
But when you were slipping your shoes on by the front door, he got up too. Didn’t say much more. Just grabbed his keys and wallet…and followed.
Now the two of you walk down a narrow street that leads to the port. You can hear the music flowing through the air. Lanterns hanging, making the pathways have a faint and intimate glow.
He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets. White sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows, and his jaw set like he’s struggling to focus on the ground.
“Y’can relax, y’know?” You nudge his arm. “S’not like we’re about to go to war.”
The corners of his mouth twitch.
The crowd near the bar thickens. Some people pass by singing along to the music that’s flowing out the open windows. You look at Charles..and the glow from tall the hanging lights catch on his cheekbones. Makes his eyes look lighter.
“Looks fun,” you sway your body.
He hums. Glances at the surroundings. “Crowded.”
But you pulled him inside anyways. And somewhere between the first and third round of drinks, it changed.
You and Charles are tucked at a small table near the edge of the port. Bottle of wine and a few various glasses between you. Candlelight flickering across his face.
And he’s relaxed. Like actually relaxed. Shoulders loose. Smiling. And he’s laughing.
“Okay…y’have to admit…” You lean closer, your arms pressed into the table. “Y’like this.”
He shakes his head, but his grin is so wide into his glass. “I like the wine.”
You snort. “Liar.”
His eyes are warm, and theres a glint in them that’s almost teasing. “Maybe the company’s not terrible either.”
You smile. And your chest does that weird tightening thing it always does around him. “See?”
“Don’t let it go t’your head now.”
You laugh. And Charles feels like his heart might explode as your head tilts back from laughing so hard.
The band eventually switches from some soft guitar riffs to something faster. People begin clapping along to the beat. Some older woman pulls you out of your seat, and you’re laughing before you can even protest.
Charles groans when you motion for him to join too, but he still does it anyways.
And he doesn’t know half the steps or anything, but he tries. Spinning. Bumping shoulders. Your both laughing and smiling.
And you’re still laughing when you hear, “Look who it is!”
You turn. And there he is..the guy from the beach. Grin easy as ever.
“Didn’t think I’d actually see y’here.” He steps closer.
You laugh. “Guess y’were right about this place!”
“Told you,” he shrugs his shoulders with a smile. “Best music on the island.”
Charles doesn’t say anything. Just studies the guy.
“Y’two staying long?” He asks.
“Few more days…” you say. “Just up that hill over there,” you point.
“Y’should catch the market tomorrow morning before it gets too hot in the afternoon…They do this thing with lemon and honey-“
“We’ll check it out,” Charles says. Not unkindly. But quickly.
The guy pauses, a little taken aback. But the smile is still on his face. “Right. Yeah.”
“Thanks for the tip,” you say with a smile.
“Anytime,” he says. “Well enjoy.” He gives a small wave before walking off into the crowd.
You look at Charles now. The lanterns warm his face. And his hands are in his pockets, shoulders drawn a little tight again like earlier. The wind from the sea blows against the fabric of his shirt, just enough to show the shape of him. Broad and solid.
But his face is what gets you. There’s a faint crease between his brows and he doesn’t look at you right away. Just looks past you. At the people dancing…the lights against the water…the back of the man from the beach. And then his eyes find you. And it feels like the crowd doesn’t exist.
“Y’didn’t have to scare him off like that, y’know?”
There’s something raw in the way he looks at you. Not jealousy…or even anger… just like that quiet intensity you used to find in them. The kind of look that makes it hard to tell what he’s really thinking.
“Didn’t scare him off.”
You tilt your head. “He was just being nice.”
Charles hums. “That’s one word for it.”
“Don’t start,” you warn. Smiling anyways.
“M’not starting…” he keeps his eyes on yours. “Y’just never notice when someone’s trying with you.”
You huff out a laugh. “Trying what?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it does matter.
“Y’do that,” he says. Voice quiet as you stand close to each other. “Deflect.”
“Y’think you’ve got me all figured out, yeah?” Your throat feels tight.
He leans in a little closer. Close enough that you can smell the wine on his breath. “Not all of you…no.” His voice soft. “Just parts y’don’t hide well."
Something twists in your stomach. And you try to speak, but all that comes out is some short and quiet laugh. Like you’re nervous. You are nervous.
“And what parts are those?”
His eyes flick to your mouth…barely…before he meets your eyes again. And you can tell that he wants to kiss you from the way his body stills. From the way his jaw twitches. Like he’s holding himself in place with everything he’s got. His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t dare reach for you.
Heart beating a bit faster than what could be qualified as normal now.
“Charles…” you start. His voice comes out soft…quieter than you meant to.
And he exhales slowly. “Y’do that too.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like you’re warning me.”
He talks a step closer. “Doesn’t sound like a warning though,” he adds. Voice soft.
And you don’t know who moves first. Maybe its him…or you…but the space between you diminishes in the blink of an eye.
His hand finds the underside of your jaw. Thumb brushing your cheek at first. And you can feel that tiny, shaky breath he lets out before he finally closes the space.
It’s not rushed.
It’s slow. Tentative.
But when you kiss him back…when your brain computes what’s actually happening…all hesitation disappears. And it feels like something just slots right into place. Inevitable, almost.
The noise of the crowd blurs. Music fades. And for a bit, it’s just the warmth of his mouth.
But when he pulls back, its like a slow exhale of breath. Lips close that if you pursed your lips again you’d be kissing.
His eyes stay closed for a moment longer. And when they open, its like you can see everything there. The want…the guilt.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says softly.
Your heart feels like it might lurch out of your chest. “Charles…”
He shakes his head, takes a step back before you can say more. And his hands drop from your face in the process.
“I just…” he pauses. Looks at you like he’s fighting with himself to find the right words to say. “It wasn’t fair.”
You swallow. “To who?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Turns to look at the water as his jaw tightens. “Doesn’t matter….it was a mistake.”
The word mistake makes your heart crack. Makes your stomach drop.
So you nod once. “Right.” Because really, what else is there to say or do?
He looks at you and looks like he regrets saying that. But he doesn’t take it back.
For a moment, neither of you say a word. Just hear the music shift into something soft. And you can still feel the press of his lips on yours. The crowd moves around you two.
“Let’s go home.”
It’s not distant. Just tired.
You nod. “Yeah.”
-
The morning comes slow.
The shutters of the bedroom windows still useless as ever as the sun burns bright. The air is warm.
You lie in bed for a while. Eyes open. Heart heavier than it should be.
But you can still feel the ghost of his lips. The way he touched you. It loops over and over and over.
Charles is already in the kitchen when you get up. He’s in one of his Ferrari shirts. Gives you a small nod.
“Morning,” you say.
“Morning.”
You walk around the small kitchen, reach for a mug. And the silence stretches heavy.
“Sleep alright?” He asks.
You nod. “Yeah…you?”
“Fine.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Y’want breakfast?”
“M’okay,” you give him a faint smile. “M’gonna go into town for a bit. Check out the market.”
You sip your coffee and lean your hip against the countertop. Watching as he moves around the kitchen, like he’s trying to keep busy now that you’re here.
You can tell he’s fighting something. And you know exactly what. But you don’t make a comment on it.
He’s thinking about Arthur. You can tell by the stiffness of his shoulders. The way he taps his fingers against the counter. The way he cleans dishes that were either already washed or unused. The guilt eating at him.
“Y’want me to come?”
“No…s’okay.” You say.
He nods once. “Right.”
The silence hands a bit too long. “Y’don’t have to look so relieved about it.” You tease. Trying to break the tension.
And it’s that…that…gets his eyes on you. A crease between his brows. “M’not relieved.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales loudly. “Didn’t think you’d want the company.”
You blink. “Didn’t think you’d actually offer it.”
He stares at you properly. Not the careful side glances he’s been giving you. And it makes something in your stomach twist.
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“Wouldn’t be a good idea,” he says. Low. Certain.
You don’t ask why. You don’t even have to.
So you hum softly. Set your mug in the sink.
He wants to say more. You can tell just by the way his gaze lingers on you. The way his lips slightly part…then shut again.
He nods toward the front entryway. “Market’ll probably get busy soon.”
You nod. Ignore the slight crack in his voice. “Yeah.”
-
The villa feels different tonight.
Like the walls are holding everything in. Or the sea is listening.
You can’t sleep. Sheets twisted…pillow flipped over and over. The air is warm. And your mind keeps circling back to him.
So you give up, eventually.
The ground is cool beneath your barefoot when you walk outside. The moonlight reflecting off the pool water as you sit at the edge. Dip your feet in.
You sit there for a while. Listening to the breeze. The faint sound of the sea.
And then you hear it. The terrace door. Footsteps. A pause.
“Can’t sleep either?”
You don’t bother to turn around. Just keep staring at the way the light reflects off the pool water. “Apparently not.”
He comes closer. Lowers himself onto the pool edge. His knee almost brushing yours. Almost.
“Didn’t think you’d be up.”
You look at him. His elbows are resting on his knees. The light catching on the faint stubble of his jaw. The tiny scar near his mouth you’d forgetten he even had.
“Didn’t think you’d be out here,” you confess.
He hums. “Couldn’t sit still.”
You nod. “Too quiet”
“Too loud,” he confesses. “Up here.” He taps at the side of his head.
You let out a huff of a laugh.
And for a while its just silence. The sound of the night. The sound of you breathing.
“Can I ask you something?”
You don’t look at him. Just nod your head. He stares at you, then back to the pool.
“Did y’ever think about him? Like…after?”
Your stomach twists. “Arthur?”
He nods. Still not looking at you. “Yeah.”
You swallow. Lean back against the palms of your hands. “Of course I did.”
He hums. “Right.”
You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to even mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Charles.”
He looks at you then. “It means y’just left. And I watched him fall apart…and you…you did’t even look back.”
The words sting. The way only half-truth’s can.
You blink. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not.”
“And you think…y’think I wanted to leave?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. You can tell by the look on his face that he says yes.
“So what? Y’think I just left…for no reason? Didn’t look back because I got…I got, what? Bored or something?”
His eyes sharpen. “Did you not?”
You let out a laugh. One of disbelief. No amusement in it. “God…y’really have no fucking clue, do you?”
He straightens his posture a bit. “Know what?”
“It doesn’t matter…y’wouldn’t believe me anyways.”
“Try me.”
You stare at the water. Shoulders sagging a bit. “He cheated. Cheated, Charles.”
He blinks. “What?”
“The summer before we broke up…some girl…friend of a friend, or something. I didn’t even get the full story because I didn’t want it. Told me it didn’t mean anything like that would make it all better or something….”
Charles goes still. “He…he told me y’just left him.”
You laugh, shake your head. “Of course he did.”
“I can’t believe he…” He pauses. “I spent months defending him.” His voice goes rough. Shaking his head like he can’t believe how he was lied to.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“Why? So you can apologize for hating me over Arthur or something?”
He looks at you. “Y’think that’s what this is?”
“I don’t even know what this is.”
Charles runs a hand over his face. “I didn’t just hate you for what I thought you did. I hated you for what…for what I felt.”
Your stomach drops. But he keeps going.
“Y’just don’t get it…I used to watch y’with him. And I’d feel…fuck. I don’t even know what. Angry…jealous…stick to my fucking stomach. And then I’d hate…hate…myself for it. Because really? What kind of older brother roots for the downfall of his little brother?”
You can’t move. Can’t speak.
He laughs. Shaking his head. “Told myself it was just some stupid crush…curiosity..whatever helped me sleep at night.”
He holds your gaze then. And it feels like the air around you two is bending. “And now you’re here…and its like every part of me that’ve ive spent years trying to shut up..” He rubs at his chest. “Just won’t shut up.”
“Y’mean that” You whisper.
He lets out a tired laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
His shoulders are tense. Like he’s bracing for you to get up and walk away.
Instead, you lean closer. “Y’ever think that maybe you just were never supposed to hate me?”
He smiles. But its small. Frail. “I think about it more than I should.”
You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his body. “Y’make it impossible to feel anything else sometimes.”
And then the space between you shrinks.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
And then when he kisses you its nothing like the kiss a few nights ago. It’s desperate. Full of everything he’s held back.
His hands find your face. And when he breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.
And then its a blur.
His hands find your waist. Yours grip his shirt. The soft thud of a wall as your back hits it. And the world basically falls away as clothes are tugged off.
And by the time you reach the bedroom, both of you are basically naked. Tumbling onto the mattress. Kissing in between soft laughter.
He touches you like you’re something fake. Like if he blinked you’d wither into thin air.
Hums against your lips when you lock your arm around his neck. Pulling him closer into you, your back digging deeper into the mattress as his full body weight rests against you.
And when he pushes in, it’s feels like the piece of a puzzle finding its correct spot. Exactly where it should’ve been.
“So fucking perfect,” He groans. Head falling forward into the crevice of your shoulder. Your fingers digging into the skin of his neck and shoulders. “Better….better than I could ever imagine.”
You cry out as he pushes in further. Hips moving at a steady pace.
It doesn’t take either of you long to finish. The build up…the need…the want was all too much. The pressure in your tummy builds fast.
“Y’drive me crazy…” He pants.
“Yeah?” You whisper.
He nods once. Jaw tight. Eyes searching your face as he fucks himself into you.
“Bet my brother couldn’t give this cunt what it needed, no?” He spits out. Leaning up against his arms to hover over you higher now. His eyes narrowed and dark as he watches your boobs bounce with each thrust of his cock.
You shake your head.
“F-fuck..fuck, baby.” He groans.
And your body feels like its on fucking fire. “Charles…”
“I know,” he admits. “I…fuck…I know…c’mon give it to me.”
And then you’re crying out, pulling him down closer. Colliding lips. Mouth crushing as he thrusts don’t let up. He swallows every moan from you.
Groans when he feels your cunt clench around him. Body arching into him.
“That’s it…mmm, c’mon baby.”
He fucks into you a bit harder.
It takes a few more thrusts before you fall apart around him. A few more after that as he spills inside of you. Throbbing. Aching.
Chest heaving.
And for a while, neither of you move. The room feels too quiet. Still. But its the kind of silence that comes after something that’s been building for too fucking long.
And when he looks at you…It’s soft. Curious.
“Fuck.”
You smile. “Yeah….fuck.”
And then you’re both laughing. Chests still rising and falling.
pairing: charles leclerc x ex-situationship!fem!reader
summary: in which you and your ex-situationship are stuck together at a villa in italy for your mutual friends destination wedding OR you and charles may or may not be in love with each other
warnings: angst, smut, language, also cute and fun???, like forced proximity, more like confused on how to act with each other than mean, still some meanness, one French phrase (not sure if its correctly written), NOT PROOFREAD (prob some typos I'm sorrryyy my keyboard loves to autocorrect the wrong words sometimes)
word count: 10.3k
author's note: okay so this ended up being way more fun than I anticipated. I wanted to make them really mean to each other at first but that didn't just feel natural (so sorry if you're expecting full on hating each other, cause they don't). it's more like bickering and damn I wish things never changed energy if that makes sense. there's still obviously arguments, but it didnt feel natural to have them constantly being mean and fighting considering they are at their friends wedding (like don’t make it about urself the whole weekend bestiessss) LOL. anways, I hope you like!!!
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You’d seen photos. Of course you’d seen them.
Lucy sent them months ago. A couple of blurry iPhone photos and screenshots from some wedding websites. It’s like a literal movie she said, with multiple red heart emojis and a voice note squealing over the string lights and views.
You zoomed in on the photos with interest at the time, nodded along with her squeals. But standing here now…sweating just a bit from the Italian summer heat, doesn’t do it justice. Like at all.
Even with the struggle of your suitcase along the gravel.
The villa is absolutely fucking stunning.
Pale green shutters pushed open to let a breeze through the villa. Tucked right between a vineyard and some olive groves.
There’s laughter coming from the side of the villa. Definitely close to the garden. And you can hear the sound of a bottle popping...maybe a few glasses clinking together....and of course the unmistakable voice of Emily shrieking. Something like Lucy, y’better be fucking joking!!!
You grin to yourself.
You pull your suitcase onto the tile, and Lucy’s already clocked your arrival. Half-speed walking, half-skipping toward you barefoot. A glass half-full in her hand.
“Finally!” She throws her arms up as you drop the rest of your bags, pulling you into a hug.
“Already drinking, hm?” You laugh.
“Uh…hello,” She says, dramatically swinging her arms in the air. “It’s Italy.”
“And I’m early.”
“You’re late by my time.”
Your smile grows wider. “Ahhhh yes, of course. How on earth could I ever forget just how early y’show up to stuff.” You joke. Because the one thing about Lucy is that she’s usually late.
She grins. “Missed you so much.”
“Y’saw me two weeks ago.”
She rolls her eyes. “C’mon…go dump your stuff in your room and then come meet everyone.”
“Please tell me there’s a fan in my room.”
“It has a…window.”
You roll your eyes with a soft laugh. Bending over and grabbing your bags again as Lucy wanders back.
You head towards the villa. And somehow it’s possible that it’s even more beautiful on the inside.
There’s a table set up with little welcome cards and towels. All handwritten. Name tags and room assignments.
Yours says….window view and a biiiig bed. you’re so so welcome <3
You smile.
You find your room at the end of the upstairs hallways. One with a gigantic ass bed all to yourself because…surprise, you’re probably the only one that came solo.
And it hits you. You really are probably the only one who came alone.
You collapse face down onto the mattress with a soft sigh.
But it’s fine.
You’re here for Lucy. You plan to wear something pretty, drink a few glasses, and pretend you don’t think about the one person you haven’t seen yet. The one who has probably already said hi to everyone else.
The one who’s probably somewhere around the villa, with his hands in his pockets. Charming someone new.
Your window is open, and you hear someone laughing. Deep. Familiar.
Another cork pops. And you can make out Lucy’s voice.
You take your time getting ready. Partially to decompress after the travel and lack of sleep you had last night.
You put on a pale pink dress. Simple jewelry consisting of some earrings and a dainty neckless. Shoulders bare.
When you check your phone for the first time since landing, you see a text from Lucy.
Lucy: Dinner soon, b! You’re next to Charles….pleeeeease don’t stab him
You stare at it.
And then, very…very calmly throw it down on the mattress with a huff.
-
You make your way down when the sun finally dips behind some of the trees.
The string lights haven’t really glowed yet, the sun still a bit too bright. And a long table is placed in the middle of the garden. Olive trees surrounding it.
The table is covered in linen and pretty flowers. Some mismatched wine glasses, cute name cards, and some tea-lit candles.
People are already seated. Laughing and passing the bottles around. Some standing behind chairs as they greet others with hugs.
You spot your name near the center of the table. And sitting in the seat beside it…already leaning back with his arm slung over the back of your chair…like this isn’t the first time he’s sat beside you in months….is Charles.
He’s in a linen button down. The top two buttons undone, showing you the dip of his throat. Sleeves rolled up on his forearms. And his hair is a little messy. Not in a bad way, but just the kind that makes you wanna run your fingers through it.
You approach calmly. Like your spine isn’t ramrod straight. Like you’re not thinking of what the prison sentence for murder in Italy is.
He sees you. Grinning like he’s been waiting for you.
“Look who finally showed up.”
You want to slap him.
You want to kiss him too.
You sit into your seat, not even acknowledging him. You set your bag by your feet and pull the napkin into your lap like it’s the most important thing to focus on.
And then you force a smile. Because this is the first time you’ve seen him since you stopped whatever the fuck it was you both were doing.
And it makes you want to scream.
Because it used to always be so easy with him. Like stupidly easy. Effortless. Like in the way your hands always used to find each other’s beneath tables. Beneath the sheets.
And then it ended. And he let it.
“M’literally five minutes early.”
He hums, like you’re wrong. “Late.”
You roll your eyes.
And he laughs. “Still so testy, hm?”
You glance at him. “Still leaning over my chair.”
He raises his arm off your chair. Resting it into his lap. “Didn’t realize y’were so territorial.”
“M’not.”
He nods his head in slow motion. His eyes glinting in amusement.
The wine bottle makes it way toward your area of the table. And you go to reach for it but Charles reaches it first.
He fills his glass first. Then yours. Like its something automatic. Like he knows you wouldn’t ask for the bottle from him and probably would wait until another came around.
You eye the glass like it offended you. But say nothing.
“I can drink out of your glass first, if y’need.”
You take your glass. “Don’t waste your time.”
“You’re right,” he passes the bottle down. “Like watching y’suffer too much anyways.”
You let out a small laugh as you take a sip before you can stop it from happening. And it’s barely audible, but of course he hears it.
And his grin widens.
You glare at him. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Whatever smug bullshit you’re thinking.”
“M’just happy you’re still such a terrible liar.”
You don’t answer. You reach for a piece of bread in a basket instead. And the person on the other side of you leans closer to talk about the itinerary.
And Charles shifts a bit closer. Pretending like he’s just trying to hear better. But his knee bumps into yours. Once.
Twice.
And you’re not sure if you can convince yourself its an accident.
But it feels like a match being lit.
-
You’re sitting on the arm of someone else’s chair at the fire pit. A wine glass in one hand and your sandals in the other.
Laughing at something Chloe said about how her sister accidentally sent a nude photo to her boss.
“Okay,” one of the groomsmen calls out. “Real question here…if y’had to marry someone…anyone at this wedding…”
“Absolutely not.” You laugh. “Don’t even bother finishing that sentence.”
“No..no no no,” Rachel laughs with the rest of the group. “Obviously hypothetical… no one gets offended. You have to pick.”
You hold your wine a bit higher. “I pick the bartender.”
“The bartender is not a guest.”
“He has all the alcohol and doesn’t talk too much. Marriage material in my opinion.”
Everyone laughs. But you can feel it.
A glance.
And you don’t need to look to know that Charles is looking at you from just a few seats away.
The group keeps going. Chloe picks some guy you don’t know…Luke…who she thinks might be single but could also already be married. Rachel picks Lucy’s dad. Someone else picks Lucy, which then sparks a ten minute debate about whether she counts.
You stay quiet. Sipping from your glass. Laughing when other’s laugh. And very…very intentionally not looking at him.
“So…what about you?” A voice says from behind your right shoulder.
You glance over your shoulder to see Charles standing not too far from you. An eyebrow raised.
He’s looking at you. Waiting.
“What about me?”
“Who’d you marry?”
You glance at your wine glass then back to him. “We’re doing that now?”
“We’ve been doing that for the last twenty minutes,” Chloe half-whispers into your ear.
You glance around and the entire group is watching.
Charles tilts his head, like he knows just how annoying he’s being. “C’mon…y’gotta pick one.”
You smile. “I already picked the bartender.”
Charles laughs. “I thought we agreed that y’cant pick him.”
“He’s marriage material. M’telling you.”
The entire group laughs. And Charles grabs an already opened bottle to fill his glass back up. His back to you for a few moments.
Chloe leans in to you again. “Forgot how much you two bicker.”
You shake your head with your brows furrowed. “We do not bicker.”
You glare at her for a few moments. And Chloe just smirks back, turning back to the rest of the group conversation like she didn’t just plant something in your brain for you to knit-pick over later.
Charles returns, his tone casual. “Soo…just to clarify. If the bartender was a guest, you’d marry him?”
You shrug. “Yup.”
He smiles. “That’s comforting. Really comforting actually.”
Your brows furrow. “To who?”
“To me,” he says. “Always figured if you ever did get married, it’d be to someone boring.” He keeps his eyes on the fire.
“Boring?”
Charles wine glass dangles in his hand. Like he’s trying to not make a scene. Even though he clearly is. “Yeah…like…someone predictable. Someone with a routined schedule and a bedtime.”
You blink. “Wow.” You drag on the word.
You glance around and no one reacts. Everyone is too caught up in their own conversations now. Laughing at something Jacob was saying, another person trying to light a cigarette.
“Y’rehearsed that one, didn’t you?” You mutter.
Charles smiles. But it’s small. And his eyes are still on the fire. “Didn’t have to…known you long enough.”
You scoff. “You don’t know me.”
He turns towards you then. Just enough that he looks at you.
“That’s cute.”
You shift. Trying to keep your voice even as you say, “Seriously. Y’think that whatever we had was enough to know me?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. No. He just looks at you. Like really looks. But the light of the fire makes it hard for you to read the expression in his eyes.
“Still defensive as ever.” He holds your gaze.
“Still cocky as ever.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “No. M’just right.”
“About what exactly?” You straighten your shoulders. “Your expert analysis on my future husband?”
He smiles. But its cold. “M’just sayin…y’always had pretty shit taste.”
You snort. “Right. And you fall under that shit taste, yeah?”
That hits. And you can see the flicker in his eyes.
But he recovers. “Yeah. And then spent months acting like it was nothing.”
You blink. Once. “It was nothing.”
“Sure.” He nods. Slow. Like he’s trying to get under your skin. But he knows he’s already beneath it. “Keep telling yourself that.”
And he says it in that same maddening calm tone he used to use. The one that always made you want to chuck something at his smug fucking face.
You let out a dry laugh. “Y’know whats funny? You keep saying I acted like it was nothing, which it was…but it was you who couldn’t stay the night.”
He leans forward.
“I didn’t stay because I knew what it was,” His voice is low. “Didn’t mean I liked doing it.”
You scoff. “So you…didn’t…like it. But came back anyways…is that right?”
He brings his wine glass to his lips now. Shrugs his shoulders. “S’not like you locked your door.”
You clench your jaw. Turn to look at the fire as someone else laughs. Everyone too far in their own conversations to save you from this.
“M’not doing this with you.” You say quietly.
Charles glances at the sky. Then back down to you. But you don’t meet his eyes.
“I’ve moved on.” You stand to your feet. “M’here for Lucy and Max. That’s it. We can be civil, or we can avoid each other.”
Charles lips tighten.
“Pick one.”
And you don’t wait for a reply.
You just turn, heels crunching against the gravel, as you let out a fake yawn and a quick goodnight to everyone.
Leaving the fire and him behind.
-
The very first thing you do by the time you get outside is heavily ignore the group forming around a printed out sign in the grass that says Team Bride & Team Groom: Olympics and beeline right to the bar.
You didn’t really get a good look at the bartender last night, but you recognize enough to know its the same one from last night. Dressed a little less formal with his sleeves pushed up. Already popping a bottle.
“Morning,” he says. A smile on his lips. “Y’look exactly like someone who’s dreading group games.”
You sigh. “Does anything good ever happen after the decision of split teams?”
“Nope…not once.” He pours you a glass without even asking. And its mostly champagne, barely any orange juice. “I’m Mattia.”
You take the drink, with joy. Take a sip. A long sip. And the drink is absolutely perfect.
“This is basically therapy, y’know?”
Mattia laughs, leans in. “A bit cheaper too, yeah?”
You’re mid laugh when another voice cuts in.
“She laughs,” Charles huffs. “That’s new.”
You don’t even need to look at him. You close your eyes for a moment. Take another sip to ease yourself.
And Mattia remains cool. But glances between you and Charles like he’s watching an episode of some reality show.
You place your finished drink down, pushing it toward Mattia with pleading eyes. Saying please, give me another before I jump off the nearest cliff. Mattia takes the glass with a smirk.
You turn towards Charles. And he’s in a baby blue t-shirt that clings a little too well to his chest and biceps. Sunglasses shoved up into his hair. His skin is already sunkissed.
You blink. “Good morning.”
“Early start?” He nods his head at the glass Mattia just refilled.
“Desperate times.” You nod.
“Lucy said everyone needs to be back by the dinner table for pairing assignments.”
“Great,” you say. Voice flat. “Can’t wait…I’ll be there in a bit.”
Charles doesn’t move.
You glance over and he’s still leaning agains the bar. His arms crossed. And that same annoying stance like he’s just existing there.
“I said I’ll be there.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say anything.”
You raise your brows. Glance at Mattia who smirks at you. “But you’re still here?”
“Just…” he rolls his shoulders. “Taking a breather…it’s hot out.”
You glance up at the clear sky. It’s breezy and not too hot out. “Is it?”
He nods. Unbothered. “Y’know how I get.”
“You seriously gonna hover?”
He feigns offense.
“M’just making sure you don’t forget the schedule.”
“And I told you that I’d be there.”
He nods. Still doesn’t move.
You blink at him. “You’re really staying? Should I get you a name tag and mixer?”
He smiles, seeming more interested. “Well that depends. Are y’tipping me?”
You groan.
And he stays right there.
-
You stand in front of the table in the lawn. Stacked with paper fans, clipboards, and sunscreen bottles.
You squint at the table, arms folded.
“Okay! So pairings are listed near the corn hole sets. Grab your name tags!” Lucy beams out with joy.
You step forward, already dreading these games. And you find your name in Lucy’s curly writing. And next to it…
“Fuck me,” you groan to yourself.
“Already did.” A voice says casually from behind.
You freeze.
Roll your eyes.
Turn slowly.
Charles has his sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his shirt now. Arms crossed like he knew you two were paired the entire time.
He raises his brows. “What? M’just finishing your sentence.”
You hold his gaze. “You’re hilarious.”
And he looks smug. “Could’ve been worse. Y’could’ve been partnered with, like…Mattia.”
You don’t bite. You grab the bean bags off the table. And he walks beside you for a few paces.
“Y’look tired.”
“And you look like someone who rigged this.”
Charles laughs, “Y’really think I would bother to rig a lawn game?”
You snort. “Please…you literally once strategically stacked the Uno deck just so I’d draw twenty cards.”
“That was different.” He laughs, again. His eyes crinkling.
“I knew I should’ve faked an injury this morning.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon. Y’know we’re unstoppable at corn hole. Basically the dream team.”
“Oh yeah,” you snort. “And then you left halfway through the game to go flirt with Joris’s cousin.”
He lets out a fake gasp. “She said she liked corn hole!”
You roll your eyes. “You’re literally impossible.”
Charles grins. Walking backwards just so he can stay in front of you while looking at you. “Yet, here we are.”
You throw a bean bag at his chest.
And he catches it without a single flinch.
“See? Teamwork.”
-
If there’s one thing to know about Charles Leclerc, it’s that he’s competitive as fuck.
Like smug-shit eating grin, absolute fucking menace type whenever there’s a scoreboard involved kind of competitive.
Like would rather die than lose type of competitive.
And apparently, that also applies to lawn games at a wedding.
You’ve seen it before, of course. Game nights, beach days, that one terrible escape room in Mallorca one year. But watching it now, while in the middle of a lawn in Italy while tipsy on Prosecco, feels a bit different.
Maybe it’s the heat…except for the fact that it really isn’t too hot out. Or maybe it’s his rolled up sleeves giving you a sight of his tanned forearms. His watch. The fucking veins.
Or it could be his grin. So smug and boyish. And so aware of just how good at this he is. At knowing when to throw a wink that burrows under your skin.
And you hate. Hate. That it still works.
Hate the way your stomach flips whenever he mutters a watch this from across the lawn before sinking a bag through the board. Hate the way you wanna smile when he celebrates like he just won a world championship.
You’re supposed to be over him. Considering, you never even dated, was there even much to get over?
And when you hit the board…dead center during the final round…
Well, he loses his fucking mind.
Like face split into a grin so fucking wide you’re convinced its just muscle memory from a pole finish. And before you can even process anything, Charles is already sprinting across the grass.
“Lets fucking gooooo!” He yells. So loud.
And then fucking lifts you. Hauls you over the shoulder.
“Charles!” You shriek, laughing. “Put me down!”
He doesn’t. Because of course he wouldn’t listen.
Instead, he circles a few victory laps while you dangle over his shoulder. One arm locked around your thighs, the other pumping his fist in the air.
“Y’kidding me?” He shouts. “That was amazing! We just won!”
“Put me down!” You laugh, kicking your feet.
His voice is warm. “You were a fuckin’ star out there.”
He sets you down carefully, slowly. Almost like he didn’t want to. And you instantly shove his shoulder with a grin on your face.
“Don’t do that again.”
He shrugs. Cheeks flushed and grinning wide. “Y’love it.”
You go to argue, but decide against. You’re too winded from laughing and his shoulder shoving into your stomach. Too flushed from the glasses of Prosecco. Or it could also be the way he’s looking at you.
You fix your hair.
“Might have to retire now.”
You playfully roll your eyes. “Please…you’d never survive retirement. You’d get too bored and end up coaching like…competitive shuffle board or something.”
He laughs. “Only if you’re on my team.”
You roll your eyes.
“Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
His smile falters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” You shrug. “Just….don’t make it into something.”
He furrows his brows. “M’not.”
You nod once and walk away.
-
Most people have showered by now. Changed into light and breezy clothes. Like linen and light colors. The garden glows as the sun begins to lower in the sky and cocktail hour is settling in.
You’re standing near the table decked out in miscellaneous types of bread, olives, and other light bites. Your shoes are off and tucked beneath one of the rattan chairs. Chloe is mid-story, waving her hands in the hair, and you and Rachel are trying not to laugh too hard. The both of you wiping tears from the corner of your eyes.
“No like I swear to God, he deadass told her he was a literal pilot,” Chloe laughs. “Like…fully sober said that.”
Emily chokes on her drink. “Wait…but I thought he, like…worked at that juice bar or something?”
“Exactly my point!” Chloe points. “Even told her he flies for Delta too.”
Rachel hits your arm. “Speaking of men who lie…”
“Oh my God,” you cut her off.
“No no…I didn’t mean it like that,” she teases. “Was just gonna say…you two were too good at corn hole today.”
Emily nods. “Like weirdly good.”
You shrug your shoulders, twirl the straw around your drink. “We’ve played before.”
Chloe raises a brow. “I remember game night last summer…when we all played what was it? Uno?”
You nod.
“You two got like scary.”
You smile softly, pretending your stomach isn’t forming knots. “We’re just competitive.”
Chloe shoots a look over the rim of her glass. “He’s still hot though.”
You snort. “Christ, Chlo.”
Rachel leans in closer. “He hasn’t looked this relaxed since he got here. Or maybe he’s still riding the high of your win.”
Chloe sips. “Or maybe its because someone finally doesn’t look like they wanna stab him.”
You open your mouth to fire something back. But Mattia walks over, casual. Refills in hand. Replacing all of your drinks with no questions asked, and a small wink at you.
As soon as he’s out of an earshot, Rachel leans in. “Okay…so bartender husband is kind of cute.”
You glare at her. “It was a joke.”
“I know,” Rachel agrees. “But he’s still cute.”
“I hate all of you.” You groan.
They laugh, and eventually you join in.
“Well, your not ex boyfriend seems like he’s about to snap that beer bottle.”
You turn a bit just to follow their gaze.
And across the garden, right by the set of bocce, Charles is standing with a few of the other groomsmen. A hand on his hip, and the other holding a beer. His sunglasses are on, but his head is tilted like he’s not reallylistening to whatever Jordan is saying to him.
But his eyes aren’t on Jordan. Or the game of bocce.
They’re on you.
But he looks away the very second your eyes meet. Like he wasn’t staring. Like he wasn’t very pointedly watching Mattia refill your drink.
Emily sips her fresh drink, “Subtle.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the girls. “We’re being civil.”
“More like being watched.”
You ignore it. Pop a grape into your mouth.
Pretend that it doesn’t make your stomach twist.
-
You’re already two glasses of Prosecco in. Wearing a floral dress that flows to your mid-thigh. And the warmth from the alcohol is making everything feel softer. More loose.
Especially while next to Charles.
You’re both slightly tipsy.
And his leg brushes yours beneath the table. Once…twice.
“I think Max is already drunk,” you whisper as you watch Lucy’s fiancé try and fail at opening a bottle of wine.
Charles grins. “He looks like he’s about to pass out.”
You glance at Max’s face and immediately burst out into a laugh. Nearly choking on the last sip of Prosecco you just took.
“Shut up,” you whisper, covering your mouth like that will hide anything. “You’re so mean.”
“You’re the one who said somethin first!”
“Yeah…” you place your glass down. “But I said it with love.”
Charles hums. “Yeah…sure.” Not believing you.
You nudge him with your elbow. “Says the guy who once called Lucy’s ex a loser.”
He nearly chokes on his glass of wine. Grin widening. “That’s different.”
“You literally said it to his face.”
“He brought up crypto at a baby shower.”
You’re both laughing now. And Charles is watching you with his eyes crinkled at the corners. The way they always do when his laugh is real.
“Y’know you keep doing that.”
He raises one brow. “What do you mean?”
“Act like we’re still something.”
His eyes trail over your face. His features softening.
“We were never really not.” His tone is casual.
Your silent for a few moments. Take another sip of your Prosecco. Stare at the sky for a second.
And Charles clears his throat softly. “D’you remember Mexico?”
You nod once, even though his eyes are on the stem of his wine glass.
“Y’mean the apartment with that leaky sink?”
“You hated the neighbor.”
“Yeah, well that fucker vacuumed at three in the morning. Who wouldn’t hate him?”
He chuckles. “Y’liked that couch though.”
You glance at him for a moment but the image hits you fast. Uninvited.
Your spine pressing into the worn fabric of the couch. Hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave red marks. And his low, needy voice in your ear begging you to stay quiet, mon ange right before he pushed in deeper.
You blink. Hard. Swallow down the memory with a big chug of your Prosecco. Emptying the glass. But it doesn’t help.
“That couch was awful.”
His voice lowers. “Didn’t sound like y’hated it.”
You turn your head to catch the smirk on his lips. Cheeks reddening.
“Shut up.”
His smile widens. Clearly satisfied.
-
The sun is high and it’s hot out. But there is a breeze that pushes through the vines of the vineyard just enough to make it somewhat bearable.
You’re all halfway through the vineyard tour. And everyone is already a little buzzed. Lucy’s clinging onto Max’s arm to keep herself from falling over the uneven grass. Chloe’s probably taken nine hundred photos of the vines. And someone has already spilled wine over their linen pants.
The guide stops again to pour another round of samples. A pale looking white wine. You accept the glass with a smile, knowing you probably won’t like it.
You’ve never been the biggest fan of white wine. Something about it always left a bitter taste in your mouth.
But you swirl the glass anyways with a smile.
“Switch,” a voice says from behind your shoulder.
You glance behind.
And Charle is standing right behind you, holding his glass out like it’s no big deal.
Yours is untouched, but his is already half-drunken.
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “Y’never liked the whites. Switch.”
You give him a confused look. “How do you know that?”
He gives you a sideways glance. “Cause you hated every white wine during that time in Barcelona.”
“I don’t hate every white wine.”
“You hated most of them.”
“Well…that’s because the bartender gave us shitty ones.”
Charles is grinning now. “Didn’t stop you from drinking it though.”
You roll your eyes. “I was being polite!”
“Yeah?” He holds out the glass. “Well then be polite again. Switch."
You hesitate. But eventually hand your glass over, accepting his rosé.
He says nothing else. Just clinks your glass with his before stepping away again.
Like it didn’t mean anything.
You sip on the rosé. The coolness making you feel so much better beneath the burning sun. And you hate the fact that it’s exactly what you wanted. That he knew.
The group begins to move again. You fall behind for a bit, walking slowly.
Charles eventually finds himself at your side again. But he doesn’t say anything. Just matches your pace in comfortable silence.
And it shouldn’t matter. But it does.
Because you’re not fine. Like not really.
Because he still pisses you off. Makes you want to scream at him one second but laugh the next. Still makes your heart ache.
And he’s just there. Under your skin.
Like he never really left.
-
You tell yourself that you should go inside.
Like everyone else has. You heard everyone shut their bedroom doors. All the sleepy goodnight’s. And the fire pit is nearly burned out.
You should get up. Should go wash your face. And definitely should not be sitting here hoping that he walks out looking for you.
But of course he does.
Charles doesn’t say anything at first. He just drops onto the bench beside you calmly.
“You’ve been avoiding me all night,” he says.
“M’not.”
“You are,” he mutters, placing his water down on the gravel.
You don’t answer. Just stare at the burning ash of the fire pit.
And he leans in closer. You feel your pulse spike.
“I watched you all day, y’know?” His voice is low.
And you feel your fingers wrap tighter around the sleeve of your hoodie.
His hand brushes your thigh, barely. But enough to cause a twist to form in your tummy. Like he’s testing the waters.
And you don’t stop him.
“Y’wanna know what I thought about?” His voice low. “All day….all night?”
“Not really,” you lie.
But he ignores you.
“Thought about how y’used to sound,” he whispers. “When I’d fuck you slow. Let you ride me until you couldn’t handle it anymore.”
You suck in a breath. “Charles…”
“Thought about your mouth…” His hand rests on your bare thigh now. Intentionally. Possessively. “What it looked like wrapped around m’cock.”
And you hate how quick your body reacts.
How the heat blooms low in your tummy. Sharp. The kind that makes your breath catch.
And you should stop this.
Should laugh it off. Should remind yourself that it’s late and that you’ve been drinking all day. That its probably just all the wine and lovey wedding energy is just fucking with you.
But you don’t stop him
Don’t stop him as he reaches for your jaw, turning your head towards him.
“Bet you’d still fall apart for me, yeah?” He mutters.
And then you’re kissing him.
Or he’s kissing you.
Your mouths crash together and he groans. Deep and needy. Fingers tightening against your thigh. Tongue sliding against yours.
It’s desperate.
Hot and outright fucking stupid.
You moan into his mouth when his fingers slip higher, fingers pushing the fabric of your shorts aside. Like he still knows exactly how you like to be touched.
And he’s groaning when you tug on the collar of his hoodie, pulling him closer.
His mouth drags down your neck. Hot, open mouthed kisses against your skin as he targets the spot beneath your jaw that always made you weak.
“Fuckin’ missed this…” He mumbles.
And you gasp when his fingers trail higher, toying with the fabric of your panties but not slipping under them.
“Y’gonna come upstairs with me?” He breathes. Lifting his head enough to meet your eyes. And his voice is wrecked. “Let me fuck you like I used to?”
You freeze.
Heart stuttering. Everything in you still burning. Aching.
But your chest tightens. And its like all common sense floods back in.
The mornings he left without a word. The nights you had to tell yourself he was never yours.
“I can’t do this….” Your voice shakes. “This…this is a bad idea.”
He stills. Hand moving out from your shorts, but still resting on your thigh. And the heat in his eyes flickers.
“Right…” He mutters, pulling back from you. “There it is.”
“Charles…”
“No, it’s fine.” He snaps. “Y’want me when y’want me. Then push away the second I ask for more. Nothing new…”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His jaw tenses. “Y’think that this is just me getting off on kissing you in the dark or something? Y’think I’m here because I just want to fuck for old time’s sake?”
You flinch. Tears threatening to form in your eyes.
And then he’s running a hand through his hair. “Y’dont get to act like I don’t feel this too.”
You feel your throat tighten.
“And you don’t get to pretend like this….like this means something now.” You feel the frustration forming. “Not when you didn’t want it to mean anything before….Not when you let me think that I imagined it all. Like I was the one who made it more than what it really was.”
His mouth opens like he’s going to speak. But he hesitates. And nothing comes out. Not for a few seconds, which feels like a damn eternity.
“I didn’t disappear,” he knits his brows together. “Y’literally iced me out.”
“Because you left first!”
He shakes his head. Laughing. But it’s bitter. No humor in it whatsoever.
And then he’s swearing gently under his breath, leaning back a bit like the space will ease the pain he feels.
“I never stopped wanting you,” he confesses. “That was the fucking problem.”
And then he’s standing up. Leaving you to the fire before you can say anything else. Before either of you can say more.
Say something you’ll both regret.
Again.
-
You wake up with the kind of headache that isn’t from alcohol.
Though, all of the wine and Prosecco yesterday most definitely did not help.
Your mouth is bone dry. And your limbs are sore from how you fell asleep on the bed without even changing out of the clothes that smell like straight up fire. The same hoodie. The same shorts that his hands were under not even nine hours ago.
You squeeze your eyes shut. And the memory of last night hits you like a fucking train.
The kiss. His hands on your thighs. Mouth against your neck. His voice, low and whispered, asking you to come upstairs with him.
And the way you said no.
You push your palms into your eyes with a groan, as you sit up in the bed.
“Fuck.”
But you don’t let yourself think about it for too long. Instead, you jump in the shower, tug on something casual. Like a pair of loose linen pants and a tank top.
When you finally make your way downstairs, it’s pretty quiet. Not completely silent. Some people are still asleep, where it seems others have been up for quite some time.
You can hear a few quiet voices from the kitchen, and the sound of ceramic mugs and a coffee machine whirring from outside on the coffee table.
Your stomach outright turns when you spot him.
He’s already out in the garden. Wearing a worn, faded t-shirt (one that you definitely used to steal often) and a pair of shorts. Coffee already in hand like he’s been up for hours. Sunglasses pushed into his hair.
And his face is unreadable. But his body looks calm.
Almost too calm.
You reach the coffee table and pour yourself some coffee. Hoping that maybe he won’t say anything. Hoping that maybe he will.
But he doesn’t say a word when you step out.
No.
He just glances at you once. Eyes flicking up from your neckline to your mouth. But he looks away just as fast.
You find a seat far enough down the table that no one would say its odd. Like you’re avoiding him or something.
Lucy eventually walks out, big sunglasses covering her face. Holding a ceramic plate with a single piece of toast. “Okay,” she whines while heading toward you. “Reminder that wine tastings are cute and fun until they turn into a full on pre-game.”
Chloe groans from behind her, plopping down on the seat beside you. Resting her head on the table. “I need somethin fried…like immediately.”
You manage a small laugh.
But then Charles speaks.
“Morning,” he says it casually. Like he didn’t tell you last night how much he missed the sounds you made while he fucked you.
And the way he says it, feels like a test. A reminder.
Because he’s trying to make it seem like he’s saying it to Lucy and Chloe too, but he’s only looking at you.
You sip your coffee.
“Morning.”
You don’t meet his eyes.
-
The villa is like ten times louder now.
More voices. More kisses on cheeks and happy greeting. More suitcases being dragged around.
By the time the sun has hit high in the sky, you’ve changed into a sundress with your hair half-up. Lucy insistedthat the welcome party was casual. But still photo-friendly, obviously.
She hugged you four times and was basically bouncing with joy at the sight of the decor on the tables.
The crowd nearly doubles. Extended family. University friends. Co-workers.
And you do the polite greetings. Smiling. You help Rachel fix the strings of her dress, help with whatever needs to be done so that Lucy doesn’t feel an ounce of stress.
You sip on something Mattia made you. Its bubbly, fruity, and definitely a little too strong for someone who has barely eaten today.
And you haven’t talked to Charles all day aside from the muttered morning’s earlier.
But you feel him every time you’re in the same area.
He’s standing beside a side bar. A light blue button down with his sleeves rolled up, and linen pants. It’s the kind of shirt that makes your mouth dry. Unbuttoned enough to show his thick neck and collarbones.
He’s laughing at whatever the girl he’s talking to said.
She’s tall. Pretty. One of Lucy’s friends…you think…but you’re not sure. And you definitely don’t miss the way her body is angled toward him.
And you can’t hear their convo but you know that laugh. Because you’ve heard it many times before. From girls at the races. From girls in hotel bars. From girls who don’t know what he’s like when he’s angry. Or when he’s possessive.
When he fucks you hard and whispers against your skin like you’re the only thing holding him together.
You turn away. Pretend to be interested in the tray of caprese that one of the server’s is walking around with.
But when you glance back because you just can’t help yourself…he’s already looking at you.
And he’s not even trying to hide it.
His gaze lingers. Like he wants you to know that he’s staring.
Rachel slides up next to you. “Soooo,” she smirks. “Guessing you saw the tall brunette?”
You sigh. Turn your back to Charles completely. “Hard to miss.”
“I think she’s from Lucy’s grad program or somethin. Pretty sure her name is Jenn.”
You sip your drink, nodding.
“She’s nice,” Rachel adds. Her face softening a bit as she looks at you. “But she’s not funny…and you’re way prettier.”
You laugh a bit, but it doesn’t feel real.
“He’s free to do whatever he wants.”
“Well…yeah, but you do know he’s doing it on purpose….right?” Rachel mutters.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” you lie through your teeth.
She gives you a look. One that says you’re so full of shit.
“She’s not you…she’ll never be you.”
You glance at Rachel. Brows knit. “What’s the supposed to mean?”
Rachel shrugs her shoulders, grabs a bruschetta from a tray. “It’s just…it’s just kinda wild, y’know? Like watching him pretend he’s still not wrapped around your finger.”
You roll your eyes. “Trust me…he’s doing exactly what he wants to be doing.”
Rachel tilts her head. “Maybe. But he used to say that you ruined him for anyone else.”
And she says it so casually while she takes bites of the bruschetta. Cupping her hand beneath her mouth the prevent any spillage.
You blink. “What?”
She chews dramatically, unable to speak until she swallows. “Yeah…like when we were out one night, he was tipsy. Said somethin about you like she’s the only person who ever made me feel like I didn’t have to perform…”
Your throat tightens.
“Think it was right after that trip to Spain,” Rachel adds.
And you stare down at your feet for a second. “He said that?”
She nods. “Don’t think he even realized he said it…”
You half-laugh. Trying to ease the tightness in your chest. “Well…he clearly recovered just fine.”
“He hasn’t,” she says. No hesitation in her answer. “He just acts like he has.”
Your eyes drift to him again.
Jenn’s laughing, like head tilted back laughing. And his smile flickers a bit, but its nothing more than polite.
And his gaze falls back on you.
He doesn’t look away.
Rachel leans in. “And you can lie to me all y’want about it…but don’t lie to yourself.”
-
By the time the sun set’s, the party is in full swing. Like dancing, too many drinks being poured, loud laughter…full swing.
Everyone’s seated for dinner now, a few more tables set up for the guests who arrived today, but close friends and wedding party members at the same long wooden table.
You’re tucked beneath Emily and Rachel, half-listening to the story they’re telling.
But you haven’t moved your fork in nearly fifteen minutes.
And across the table, diagonally from you…Charles.
And Jenn is beside him. Asking questions about racing or whatever it is that she wants to know about the Scuderia Ferrari F1 driver.
You eventually pick up your fork. But only to push your food around.
“Y’okay?” Emily mutters.
You nod. “M’fine.”
She follows your gaze and winces. “Okay…so not fine.”
You pick up your wine glass with shaky hands, take a large sip.
And then you hear Charles laugh. But its not a real one. It’s one of those laugh’s he uses on media days. In press conferences. But its still loud enough to hurt.
You shove your chair back and excuse yourself for a few moments. Something about needing to grab a hair clip from your room. Maybe something about needing to restroom also.
And no one stops you. Emily just gives you soft eyes and a slight nod.
You pass Mattia at the bar. He raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything. You give him a smile…but its more like just the corners of your mouth being turned upward. Because its not really happy.
You step at the side of the villa, where a small bench wrapped in ivy sits.
And you finally breath out, letting your head fall back against the villa wall.
But of course, you don’t even get more than a minute of time to yourself.
Because Charles shows up. Hands in his pockets. With his eyebrows furrowed like he doesn’t know why he followed you. But couldn’t help it.
And you both can still hear the faint laughter of everyone at dinner.
You just needed five fucking minutes to yourself.
And of course, it only took him one.
“Hey…” Charles says, voice extremely soft.
“M’fine.”
“Y’dont look fine.”
You exhale. “Y’dont need to do this.”
He steps closer. “Do what?”
“This.” You wave your hands between the two of you without even looking at him. “Check on me. Act like you care.”
“Act like I…” He scoffs. His eyes narrowing like he’s fucking annoyed now. “Tu te fous de moi? I do fucking care.”
“Riiiight.” You half-laugh. “That’s why you left last night. Couldn’t even finish the conversation.”
You finally look at him now. And his hands are balled into fists like he has to. Because otherwise he’ll reach out and grab oyu. His jaw twitches.
“Cause I didn’t want to say somethin that I couldn’t take back!” He exasperates.
“Maybe you should’ve,” you bite. “At least then you would’ve been honest.”
“Honest?” His voice is laced with frustration. He steps closer. “Y’want honest?”
“No.” You huff. “What I want is fucking silence…I want to get through this wedding without having a fucking breakdown.”
His eyes narrow. “Y’keep acting like you don’t want me but then y’look at me like you fucking miss me.”
“I don-”
“Bullshit.” He cuts you off. “You do…and m’fucking tired of pretending.”
You straighten your spine. “Then stop.”
“I tried!” He half-shouts. “I tried being distant. Tried to ignore it. Tried to watch you talk to Mattia like it didn’t bother me…”
“Oh my fucking god,” you groan. “Mattia? Are you serious?”
“Yes!” He half-shouts, voice breaking a bit.
You close your eyes for a second, open them. “You’re the one who said it meant nothing.”
He shakes his head. “No. I never…never said it meant nothing. I said that I couldn’t give you what you wanted….and that’s not the same, like at all.”
“Oh, so this is better?” You gesture to the space between you two. Which is much smaller than when he first showed up. “Y’think throwing some kind of tantrum whenever I talk to someone proves anything?”
He laughs. “Y’think this is a tantrum? Y’havent even seen me lose it yet.”
“Well then maybe you should.” Your voice is bitter. “Maybe if you stopped acting like I’m the villain in your story…”
He cuts you off.
“I’m in love with you.”
And you stop breathing.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t take it back.
“I’m in love with you,” his voice softens. “And its driving me insane.”
Your mouth opens.
Closes.
“Say something…” He practically begs. “Please.”
But all you can do is stare at him. At the man you once let all the way in…or so you thought. And the one who keeps finding ways to break your heart.
“I need to go,” you push off the wall quickly.
Pushing past him.
-
You slam your bedroom door harder than intentional. Not to be dramatic or anything. But it makes you feel a little better.
Your dress is sticking to your skin. And you already have your earrings pulled halfway off. You’re fumbling with the zipper on the back of your dress. In need of it off.
Because you’re shaking.
Because he said it. He finally said it.
Not when you needed it earlier. Not when you laid in bed together all those months ago. But now. When everything is already broken.
You pace the room.
Until you hear your bedroom door push open again.
“What the fuck, Charles?” Your voice cracks.
He doesn’t answer. Just steps into the room hurriedly and shuts the door again. And he looks pissed. Jaw tight. Chest slightly heaving like he just ran up the stairs (he did).
“We’re not leaving this fucking room until we talk this out.” He says.
You scoff. Placing your earrings down on the dresser. “There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”
“That’s bullshit…and you know it.” He steps closer. “Y’really don’t think I see it? The way you…you look at me but then act like m’some fuckin stranger to you?”
“You are a stranger now.” You snap. “You left.”
His eyes narrow. And his nostrils flare a bit. “You pushed me out.”
“And you didn’t fight it.”
“I didn’t fucking know how! You shut me down whenever I tried!”
“M’not doing this. We’re here for a wedding. We’re not dragging our past like we’re toxic exes or some shit.”
“Oh, because god fucking forbid we acknowledge what the fuck we actually were.” His voice is angry. “That it wasn’t just sex. That maybe…just maybe, you could just open your eyes and fucking see that you actually mean something to me.”
You stare at him. Balancing your weight onto another leg, before sighing and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Do you really think that I didn’t want to fix it?” He raises his voice a bit. “Y’really think I don’t think about what I could’ve done differently? And you won’t even give me the time of fucking day for me to try.”
“That’s not fair…”
He cuts you off.
“Isn’t it?” He steps closer. “Because I’ve been fucking trying…but all you do is ice me out….pretend…pretend like you’re not angry or hurt by it all.”
“You, of all people, do not get to decide how I deal with it!” You raise your voice back. Nails digging into the fabric of the duvet. “Y’cant just walk in here demanding me to act one way or give answers for something…especially when its not like you gave me any either.”
His eyes are blazing.
“Y’want answers? Fine.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I quote on quote leftbecause I felt more for you than I ever planned. And you kept me at arms length…arms fucking length…until I stopped even knowing where we stood.”
“I did not keep you at arms length.” You hiss. “I gave you everything and y’still left!”
He clenches his jaw. “And you never once asked me to stay.”
You feel yourself freeze. And the pounding in your ears is almost all you can notice.
“That’s not fucking fair,” you stand up. “Y’cant just throw that in my face and act like…”
“Act like what?”
“Act like I’m the only one who didn’t fight.”
Charles huffs. “You didn’t….Not even once.”
“I shouldn’t of had to though.”
“You shouldn’t have…” He pauses. Running a hand over his face like it’s taking everything in him not to blow up.
“You’re fucking unbelievable, y’know that?” He mutters.
“Oh…I’m unbelievable?” You laugh. But its sharp. “You leave and disappear. And then what? Y’say I love you and think everything’s going to be all dandy again?”
“I didn’t say it to fix anything.” He snaps. “I said it because it’s true.”
“Well congratulations, Charles.” You give him a sarcastic clap. “It’s too fucking late.”
And then he’s standing in front of you. Invading your space by the edge of the bed.
“I don’t believe that.” His voice is furious. “I don’t fucking believe that…and I know you don’t either.”
You tilt your chin up. “Y’really think you can just show up and say you love me and what? We’d jet off into the sunset together?”
“You never stopped wanting me.”
You don’t speak.
“I think,” his voice dips lower. “…that y’kiss me like you’re mad that you need it. And that you pull away because it scares you how after all this time…y’still want this…want me.”
You still don’t answer.
And he leans in closer. Lips hovering yours almost. “Tell me that I’m wrong.”
Your hands grip at the fabric of your dress by your hips.
And your voice cracks when you mutter the words you’re wrong. Because you know that he’s right.
And his eyes outright sparkle at the falter in your voice.
You don’t flinch or push him away when his hand cradles your jaw. Thumb trailing your bottom lip.
“M’not wrong.”
“I shouldn’t want this.” You confess.
“But you do.”
And he waits. Gives you the chance to push him away.
But you don’t.
So you whisper under your breath, “you’re such an asshole.”
And then he smiles. Lips curling up in a grin. Before he’s pressing his lips against yours in a heated kiss.
He pulls off of you, only to mutter the words, “Stop acting like it’s gonna stop you.”
You huff in between kisses. “I hate you.”
“Y’hate how much y’still think about me when you touch yourself.”
You laugh. “See? Ass.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy kissing you. All teeth and tongue. Like he wants to punish you with his mouth. Like he’s still angry with you. But that doesn’t matter.
Because nothing else matters.
Not when his hands are dragging down the rest of your half undone zipper like he’s been dying to. Or when your dress hits the floor and you’re in nothing but underwear.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Been thinkin about this since I saw you again.”
You tug his shirt up. “Should’ve stayed gone.”
He laughs as you shove the shirt off of him. “Y’don’t mean that.”
You do. But your hands are all over his chest anyways.
“You’re such an ass,” you whisper again as his lips trail your neck.
“And you….” His hands slip to right beneath your butt, gripping the back of your thighs until your legs hit the edge of the mattress. “Are still the best thing I’ve ever fucked.”
“You’re disgusting.” Your breath hitches when his lips trail along your ear.
He hums. “Sounds like you’re about to let me back in…”
You roll your eyes. “Every time I think that maybe…maybe I won’t.” You confess.
“And yet…” He whispers into your ear. And you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Your legs are already spread f’me, mon age.”
“My god, I hate you.”
His lips trail over your cheek to your lips. “Hate me harder then. Maybe moan it next time.”
And then he’s kissing you. It’s bruising and hot. And then he’s sliding one finger beneath the waistband of your panties. Grinning into the kiss.
“Still so fuckin wet f’me.”
You gasp as he dips his fingers.
And then your back hits the mattress, him following after you. His knee between your thighs, forcing them wider. His lips trailing along your neck. The spot right beneath your jaw that you love so much.
You arch into him.
“Tell me to stop…” His voice is low. “Better yet….tell me y’don’t want this…”
You don’t.
Instead, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants. “Just shut up and fuck me.”
He groans. Desperate.
And he doesn’t hesitate. Already kicking his pants off, dragging your panties down like he’s starved and has no time to waste.
He mutters something in French. But its too fast and too hushed for you to catch. But it sounds hot. Like worship.
“Fuckin missed this,” He breathes. “Missed you.”
You shiver when he presses his chest to you. Cock dragging over your center.
You’re fucking soaked.
“Y’gonna tell me how much you hate me again?” He grunts, like he’s struggling from just shoving himself in. “Or y’gonna beg for it?”
“I’d rather choke.”
Charles grins. “Oh mon ange….I hope y’do.”
And then he’s thrusting in. Deep. Hard.
And you cry out. Shocked by the feeling of it all.
“Fuck…f-fuck…” He groans.
Your nails dig into the sheets. And then into him. One of your hands digging into the skin at his shoulders, while the others slips in between his hair. Tugging like you can’t help it.
“Y’hate me, yeah?” He breathes into your ear. And the pace of his hips is merciless. “Hate me so much that y’soaking my cock, hm?” He teases.
“Shut up.” You moan out.
And then his hand is slipping beneath one of your thighs, pushing it up to open you wider.
He thrusts harder. Mouth trailing whatever inch of skin he can get his lips on.
Your head falls back agains the mattress. His pace getting sappier. Still hard. Like if he fucks you hard enough, you’ll finally understand how much he means it.
“I should hate you,” you groan.
“But you don’t…” He presses his forehead to yours. “And I fucking love you.”
And that breaks you.
Your walls squeezing him. Hands grabbing at his shoulders. “Don’t…fuck…don’t stop.”
“Yeah?” He thrusts deeper. “Y’need it like this, baby?”
You literally can’t speak. The pleasure and emotions making your throat tight. So you nod.
His hand trails up your thigh. His grip so tight its possibly bruising. “This what you needed, hm?” He groans. “Just wanted to be split open like I’m the only one who knows how?”
You’re shaking. Body twitching with each thrust and muttered word.
And then he’s dragging his thumb between your bodies, pressing against your clit. Pressing. Circling.
And you arch instantly into him.
You moan, shaking. Orgasm hitting hard and fast. Your legs tighten around his body, nails digging into his skin.
And Charles groans loudly. Losing it.
“Fuck..fuck fuck fuck, mon ange…” he swears.
And then he’s thrusting once….twice… burying himself until he spills into you. A choked moan escaping as he presses his forehead to you.
-
Neither of you have moved.
In fact, it’s been at least five minutes and he’s still just laid on top of you. Breathing unevenly into the crook of your neck.
And he doesn’t lift his neck until you’re muttering a I’m sorry while staring at the ceiling.
He lifts his head then. “For what?”
You swallow. Your eyes meeting his.
“I don’t know…” You feel your throat tighten. “All of it.
He stares at you for a while. Like he’s trying to read between the words. The way you hold his gaze.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like it’s only on you.”
You let out a breath, like it relieved some tension in your chest. And it kind of sounds like a laugh but there’s not an ounce of humor in it.
He shifts a bit, still not letting ago. He keeps one hand beneath your back, while the other trails along your ribcage.
“I did all the wrong things. Pulled away when you shut down….didn’t fight hard enough when I should’ve known…”
You nod. And he presses a kiss softly to your cheek.
“I thought if I gave you space…” He swallows. “That you’d come back…”
You feel your eyes begin to burn.
“I thought if I let you go that you’d stay.”
His jaw twitches, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment while he tumbles curse words, his French accent more prominent than usual.
“We’re so fucking backwards, aren’t we?”
You smile. “Just a bit….still are.”
You’re both silent for a moment.
“I don’t want to keep hurting each other.”
“Me either.”
And there’s something vulnerable in his eyes when he looks at you.
-
The music has slowed down. The kind where its been too many hours of upbeat music and too much drinking, and everyone needs a moment.
The cake’s been served, most shoes are gone.
Lucy’s already cried twice. So have you and the other girls.
You’re half-delirious from the champagne. Or from Charles.
He finds you leaning against one of the tables, smiling.
“Y’look like you’re about to pass out,” he steps in front of you.
“M’fine….”
“You’re drunk.”
“M’not.” You smirk.
“You definitely are.”
“No.”
“You’re smiling at the bread basket.”
You glance at the bread rolls, and then back to him. “It’s really good bread.”
He laughs. And you hate how much it makes your stomach clench. How warm it makes you feel. His jacket is long gone, sleeves rolled up, top few buttons undone.
He reaches for your hand. “C’mon.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Riiiiiight…..here.” He steadies you on the dance floor.
You rest your head against his shoulder, swaying in silence. Comfortable.
His palm pressed against your back.
“Remember the first time we danced?”
You snort. “Y’mean the night I spilled red wine all over you?”
“I wore that shirt home.”
“Probably to bed too,” you joke back.
He hums. “Might’ve jacked off to the thought of you too.”
You tilt your head back with a laugh. “Christ, y’were so annoying that night.”
“And you were mean.” He quips.
“You still liked it.”
He grins. “Yeah…still do.”
He holds you a little closer now. Still swaying to the music like one. And you can feel his smile against your temple as you tuck your head into his neck.
“You always hated dancing,” you mutter.
“Nothing’s changed.”
You shake your head against him.
“But this doesn’t count…this is like…holding you while we..uh, sway.”
You laugh. And it’s almost too easy. Fingers curling around the back of his neck a little tighter.
You both sway in silence. His hand slips a little lower on your back. Not exactly possessive, but close enough to it.
“I love you.”
You say it like its nothing. Like its just there. Light. True.
And he stills for a moment, before letting out a deep breath.
“You’re really gonna say that and then fall asleep on me, aren’t you?” He grins.
You smile. “Probably.”
You lift your head to look him in the eye. Your eyes half-shut. And his hand brushes a strand of hair from your face. Then cradles your jaw. And his lips brush your cheek. Then your jaw.
“Say it again,” he whispers. Lips hovering yours.
You smile.
“I love you.”
He presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good because je t’aime. M’fucking obsessed with you.”
Summary: what happens when you combine two identical dachshunds, one dog park mix-up, and a very famous racing driver? Your meet-cute becomes a dognapping crisis!
The late afternoon sun in Monaco is a specific kind of gold. It’s not the hazy, humid gold of a Spanish summer or the sharp, brittle gold of a Swiss autumn. It’s a rich, old-money gold, the kind that filters through the leaves of ancient plane trees and spills across the manicured lawns of the Jardin Exotique, making everything it touches look impossibly expensive and serene. It’s the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re living inside a vintage postcard.
You are watching that very light catch the highlights in the ridiculously silky fur of your dachshund, Gretchen, as she trots with immense self-importance across the dog park’s pristine grass. Her little legs move in a blur, a determined, stubby piston-action that is entirely at odds with her otherwise regal demeanor.
“Gretchen, darling, the ball isn’t going to throw itself!” You call out, holding up the slobber-covered tennis ball.
She gives you a look over her shoulder, a look that clearly communicates, ‘And your point is?’ before she resumes her patrol of a particularly interesting patch of clover.
You sigh, a fond, exasperated sound. Having a dog named Gretchen Wieners means accepting a certain level of high-maintenance sass. It was funny when you named her, a perfect joke for a tiny, cream-colored wiener dog who seemed to be full of secrets. It is slightly less funny when she’s actively ignoring you in favor of sniffing something that is, in all likelihood, the ghost of a croissant from someone’s picnic last Tuesday.
You lean back on the park bench, the wrought iron cool against your sundress, and close your eyes for a moment, just soaking it in. The gentle murmur of French and Italian, the distant hum of a supercar winding its way down Avenue Princesse Grace, the happy yapping of dogs. It’s a peaceful symphony.
The symphony is interrupted by a new sound. A frantic, happy scrabbling of claws on gravel, followed by a leash-jangle and a low, musical voice speaking in a mix of French and English.
“Doucement, doucement. Leo, calm down, please.”
Your eyes flutter open.
Standing by the gate is Charles Leclerc, looking somehow both exactly like he does on television and completely different. He’s not in a race suit, but in a simple white t-shirt and dark shorts, his hair artfully messy from the breeze. He’s wrestling with the clasp of a leash, and at the other end of it is a carbon copy of your dog. A small, cream-colored, long-bodied, short-legged dachshund, vibrating with the sheer, unadulterated joy of reaching a field of grass.
“Okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, finally unclipping the leash.
The dog is a missile. A low-to-the-ground, cream-colored torpedo of enthusiasm. And its target is Gretchen.
He barrels towards her. Gretchen, who had been engrossed in her clover investigation, looks up, her ears perking. She sees the approaching blur and, instead of her usual aloofness with strange dogs, she does something extraordinary. She wags her tail. Not just a polite little flick, but a full-body, a-stranger-is-a-friend-I-haven’t-sniffed-yet wag.
They meet in the middle of the lawn in a flurry of sniffing and tail-chasing. It’s an instant, profound connection. A dachshund love story for the ages.
Charles walks over, a sheepish, devastatingly charming smile on his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Ah, sorry. He is … a lot.”
“Don’t be,” you say, your own smile blooming effortlessly. “Gretchen is usually the queen of social distancing. I’ve never seen her take to another dog so fast.”
“They are, euh, they look like twins.” He gestures towards the two dogs, who are now engaged in a chaotic game of chase that involves a lot of tumbling and playful nips.
“They really do,” you agree. “What’s his name?”
“Leo.”
“I love that. This is Gretchen.”
Charles’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Gretchen? Like, from Germany?”
You can’t help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that makes him smile wider. “No. Well, yes, technically. But her full name is Gretchen Wieners.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his head tilts, a look of slow-dawning comprehension on his face. He lets out a sudden, surprised bark of laughter. It’s a wonderful sound, not performative or polite, but deep and real.
“Non. You did not.”
“I absolutely did,” you confirm, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. “She’s a wiener dog. It felt like a moral obligation.”
“That is the best name for a dog I have ever heard,” he says, still chuckling. He runs a hand through his hair. “Now I feel bad. Leo is just Leo.”
“Leo is a great name! It’s classic. Strong. Lion-like.”
“He is not very lion-like,” Charles says, watching as Leo dramatically trips over his own feet while trying to catch Gretchen. “He is more like a small piece of bread with legs.”
You laugh again, covering your mouth with your hand. “A baguette?”
“Exactly! A tiny baguette.”
You both fall into a comfortable silence for a minute, just watching your identical dogs play. The golden light deepens, casting long shadows across the grass.
“You live around here?” He asks, his voice a little softer now.
“Just up the hill,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Moved here about a year ago.”
“Ah, okay. Me too. Well, I have always lived here. But my apartment is new.”
“Right. Of course.” A silly thing to forget. “It must be strange. To have your hometown be this place.” You gesture around at the opulent, postcard-perfect scenery.
He considers this, his gaze distant for a second. “Sometimes. But most of the time, it is just home. Where my dog is, you know?”
“I know exactly,” you say, your eyes soft as you watch Gretchen roll onto her back, submitting to Leo’s playful attack. “It’s funny how they anchor you. Doesn’t matter where you are, as long as they’re waiting for you.”
“For sure,” he agrees. He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes, a warm, clear green, hold your gaze. There’s an intensity there you weren’t expecting, a flicker of something that makes the air feel suddenly warmer. “It is grounding.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck. You break the gaze, looking back at the dogs. “So, uh, does Leo have any other special skills? Besides the baguette impression?”
He grins, the moment broken but the warmth lingering. “He is very good at sleeping. A champion, really. He can sleep for twenty hours, I think. And he is very good at stealing my socks. And you? What about Gretchen Wieners?” He says her full name with a delighted reverence that makes you ridiculously happy.
“She’s an expert at judging people. She has this look … it can cut you to your very soul. She’s also a master manipulator. She’ll pretend she hasn’t been fed when she absolutely has. She has my parents completely wrapped around her little paw.”
“A clever girl.”
“The cleverest.”
You talk for what feels like five minutes but, when you glance at your phone, you see it’s been almost an hour. The sun is kissing the horizon now, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. The park is emptying out.
“Oh, wow,” you say. “I should probably get going. It’s her dinner time. And if the queen is not fed on time, there will be a rebellion.”
Charles nods, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “Yes, me too. Leo, he gets very dramatic.”
He whistles, a sharp, clear sound. “Leo, viens ici!”
You call out at the same time. “Gretchen! Time to go home, sweetie!”
The two cream-colored blurs, now thoroughly exhausted and panting happily, detach from each other and trot towards the sound of their respective owners’ voices. Or, at least, that’s the general idea. In their post-play haze, they seem to aim for the nearest tall human.
The little dog that arrives at your feet looks up at you with big, brown, adoring eyes, its tongue lolling out. You reach down and scratch behind its ears, the fur just as soft as you remember. “Good girl,” you murmur, clipping the leash onto its collar without really looking.
You stand up and smile at Charles, who is doing the same with the dog at his feet.
“It was really nice to meet you, Charles.”
“You too,” he says, and his smile is genuine. “And you, Gretchen Wieners.” He winks.
“Bye, Leo the Baguette,” you say with a little wave to the dog beside him.
As you walk away, a giddy, light feeling bubbles in your chest. It’s the kind of feeling you get from a perfect, unexpected moment. A little cinematic scene dropped into the middle of an ordinary day. You don’t ask for his number. He doesn’t ask for yours. It feels too transactional. This was just a nice moment at a dog park. Maybe you’ll see him again. The thought brings another smile to your face.
The walk home is pleasant. The dog trots happily by your side, only occasionally pulling to sniff at a particularly fragrant potted plant. When you get into the elevator of your apartment building, it licks your hand.
“You’re extra sweet today,” you coo, stroking its head. “Did you have fun with your new boyfriend?”
Inside your apartment, you unclip the leash. The dog immediately does a perimeter check, sniffing every corner of your living room with a seriousness that suggests it’s searching for contraband. This is normal. Gretchen always does this, reacquainting herself with her kingdom.
You go to the kitchen and pull out her food bowl — a ceramic one with ‘Her Majesty’ painted on the side. You fill it with her special, grain-free kibble and add a splash of water, just how she likes it.
“Dinner is served, my lady!” You call out.
The dog trots into the kitchen, gives the bowl a cursory sniff, and then looks up at you. And whines. A soft, confused little sound.
“What?” You ask. “It’s your favorite. Don’t be difficult.”
It ignores the bowl and nudges its head against your leg, looking for more pets.
This is the first red flag. Gretchen lives for her food. She would trample over a line of puppies for a single piece of kibble. She never, ever, turns down a meal.
“Are you feeling okay?” You ask, crouching down. You run your hands over the body, checking for any tenderness. It just wags its tail and tries to lick your face. Everything seems fine. Maybe it’s just tired from playing so hard.
You leave the food and go to the living room, flopping onto the sofa. The dog hops up next to you — another small, almost imperceptible oddity. Gretchen always waits for a formal invitation to come onto the couch. She sits, puts a single paw on the cushion, and stares at you until you pat the seat beside you. This one just launched itself up.
“You’re being very bold tonight,” you say, stroking its long back.
It snuggles into your side, letting out a contented sigh, and promptly falls asleep. Okay, this part is normal. The post-park crash. You turn on the television, keeping the volume low. After an hour, you realize the food in the kitchen is still untouched. That’s not right.
You gently nudge the sleeping form beside you. “Hey. You really need to eat something.”
The dog stirs, blinks its sleepy brown eyes, and then yawns, a wide, cavernous yawn. You smile and go to give it a belly rub, your fingers seeking out that perfect spot that makes its leg start thumping.
Your hand moves across its warm, soft belly. You rub and you rub. And then you stop.
Your brain, which has been happily coasting on the fumes of a charming encounter, suddenly slams on the brakes.
There is … anatomy here. Anatomy that Gretchen, a female dog, definitively does not possess.
You stare down at the dog. The dog stares back up at you, tail giving a lazy thump-thump-thump against the sofa cushion.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. The words hang in the quiet air of your apartment.
You gently lift the dog’s back leg. You confirm the evidence.
This is a male dog.
This is not Gretchen.
This is Leo.
“Oh my god.”
You have Charles Leclerc’s dog. Which means … Charles Leclerc has yours.
A wave of panic, so potent it’s almost nauseating, washes over you. You jump up from the couch. Leo — because this is definitely Leo — looks at you, confused by the sudden movement.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, think,” you say to yourself, pacing the length of your Persian rug. “How do you fix this? How do you fix this?”
You don’t have his number. You don’t know which apartment is his. Monaco is small, but it’s not that small. You can’t just go door-to-door. ‘Excuse me, are you a world-famous Formula 1 driver? And if so, have you accidentally stolen my dog?’
You snatch your phone, your hands trembling slightly. What do you even do? Post on Instagram? Tag him? That seems insane. Mortifyingly insane. Hi @charles_leclerc, sorry to bother you during what I’m sure is a busy schedule of being handsome and driving fast, but I appear to be in possession of your dachshund.
Leo hops off the couch and comes over to you, nudging his wet nose into your hand as if to say, ‘What’s all the fuss about? I’m comfy here.’
You look down at him, your heart sinking. “Your dad is going to think I’m a complete lunatic,” you tell the dog. “Or a dognapper. A very incompetent dognapper.”
You check the collar. It’s a beautiful, soft leather. There’s a small, silver tag attached. You flip it over, your heart pounding with a sliver of hope.
It’s engraved with one word: Leo.
Of course. Why would it have his phone number on it? He’s Charles Leclerc. That would be a security risk.
You sink onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Across the principality, in another apartment that probably has a much better view than yours, is your sassy, judgmental, food-obsessed little girl. And she’s with a man you just met. A very famous, very handsome man who probably thinks you’re, at best, an idiot, and at worst, a kidnapper.
This is, without a doubt, the most bizarre and stressful thing that has ever happened to you.
Leo rests his head on your knee and lets out a tiny, sympathetic sigh.
***
Meanwhile, in an apartment overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Hercules, Charles is frowning at a ceramic bowl that says ‘LEO’ in bold, masculine letters.
The small, cream-colored dog sitting primly at his feet looks from the bowl, to him, and back to the bowl, her expression one of utter disdain.
“What is this?” Charles asks the dog, his voice laced with confusion. “It is your favorite. You love this.”
He had arrived home feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The encounter at the park had been … nice. Genuinely nice. The woman — he hadn’t even gotten her name, he realizes with a pang of regret — was funny and warm, with a laugh that made you want to do whatever it took to hear it again. And her dog’s name … Gretchen Wieners. He smiles to himself just thinking about it.
He’d walked in, unclipped Leo’s leash, and expected the usual routine: Leo would sprint to his water bowl, drink for a solid minute, then come demand his dinner with a series of impatient yaps.
But this dog hadn’t done that. It had walked calmly to the center of the room, sat down, and just watched him. Politely.
“Are you tired, mon bébé?” He’d asked, scratching behind its ears. The dog had leaned into his touch, but it felt different. Less frantic. More refined.
Now, it is refusing to eat.
“Leo, come on. Eat.”
The dog lets out a delicate little huff, turns its back on the bowl, and trots over to the sofa. It sits on the floor and looks up at the cushion, then back at Charles.
“What? You want up?”
The dog just stares.
“Okay …” Charles says, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, then.”
The dog, with an air of someone who feels they’ve finally been understood, hops gracefully onto the sofa and curls up in the corner, tucking its nose under its tail.
Charles stares at it. Leo is not a graceful hopper. Leo is a scrambler, a climber. Leo’s method of getting on the couch involves at least two failed attempts and a final, desperate lunge. This was … elegant.
A strange, unsettling feeling begins to prickle at the back of his neck.
He walks over to the sofa and sits down, observing the dog. It’s the same color. The same size. The same long body and short legs. But is its face a little … narrower? Are its eyes a little more … almond-shaped?
“Am I going crazy?” He murmurs.
The dog opens one eye, regards him, and then closes it again, as if to say, ‘That is a question for your therapist, not for me.’
He leans back, trying to shake it off. He’s just tired. It’s been a long week. The dog is just tired, too. That’s all.
He scrolls through his phone for a while, replying to messages from his team, his family. The dog doesn’t move. Doesn’t snore. Leo snores. Not loudly, but a soft, whistling sound. This dog is perfectly, unnervingly silent.
Finally, he decides to go to bed.
“Okay, time for bed,” he says, standing up. “Come on, boy.”
The dog on the sofa doesn’t move.
“Leo?”
Nothing.
He walks over and gently picks the dog up. It’s warm and sleepy in his arms. He carries it towards his bedroom, talking to it in a low, soothing mix of French and Italian, the way he always does.
“… and tomorrow we can go for a long walk, eh? Maybe see your girlfriend again.”
He sets the dog down on its bed at the foot of his own. As he pulls back his hands, his fingers brush against its stomach.
His hand freezes.
He slowly, carefully, moves his hand again.
There is a distinct lack of something. Something that should be there. Something that has been there every single day of Leo’s life.
Charles’s blood runs cold.
He lets out a string of curses, a fluent, panicked mix of French, Italian, and English.
“Merde. Porca miseria. No, no, no.”
He turns on the main bedroom light, flooding the room in a harsh, bright glare. He kneels down and, with the gentleness of a bomb disposal expert, confirms his horrifying suspicion.
This is a female dog.
This is not Leo.
This is Gretchen Wieners.
He stands up so fast he feels a little dizzy. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
“Okay. Okay.”
He has her dog. The woman from the park. The funny, beautiful woman whose name he doesn’t even know. He has her dog. And she has his.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. This is a disaster. But it’s also absurd. He pictures her, wherever she is, having the same moment of shocking discovery.
Unlike you, however, his panic is quickly replaced by a wry sense of determination. He can fix this. But how? He paces his bedroom, Gretchen watching him from her temporary bed with an expression of mild curiosity.
He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have her number. He doesn’t know her name. But he knows where she was. And he has a very particular set of skills. None of which are useful in this situation.
He checks Gretchen’s collar. A simple leather one, with a gold, heart-shaped tag. He flips it over, hoping for a number, a name, anything.
The tag is engraved.
Gretchen Wieners
If I’m lost, my mom is probably ugly crying.
Charles reads it. Then he reads it again. And then he throws his head back and laughs. A loud, genuine, relieved laugh that echoes in the silent apartment.
“Oh, you are kidding me,” he says to the dog, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Your mother is a comedian.”
Gretchen thumps her tail once, as if to say, ‘The best.’
The tag is useless for contact information, but it’s a jolt of pure personality. It reminds him so clearly of her laugh in the park. The stress melts away, replaced by an overwhelming urge to see her again.
He has to find her.
He has a plan. It’s simple. It’s perhaps a little optimistic. But it’s all he’s got.
He will go back to the dog park first thing in the morning. And he will pray that she has the exact same idea.
***
You did not sleep.
You spent the night with a very cuddly, very sweet male dachshund who seemed thrilled to be having a sleepover. Leo, it turns out, is a world-class snuggler. He burrowed under the covers and pressed his warm little body against your back all night. It was nice. But it wasn’t Gretchen.
Every tiny sound from the hallway had you jumping, half-expecting a knock on the door from a frantic, or angry, Charles Leclerc. You imagined him with Gretchen, who you know for a fact is a bed-hog and will systematically push a person to the very edge of the mattress over the course of a night. You hope she hasn’t declared a coup and claimed his bed for herself.
At 6 AM, unable to lie there any longer, you get up. Leo follows you, stretching his long body with a groan.
“Okay, new friend,” you say, your voice rough with exhaustion. “Here’s the plan. We are going back to the scene of the crime.”
You get dressed with a sense of grim purpose, pulling on jeans and a simple sweater. You forgo makeup. This is a rescue mission, not a fashion show. You clip the leash onto Leo’s collar, your hands clammy.
“Please be there, please be there, please be there,” you chant under your breath as you walk out the door.
The morning air is cool and fresh, the sky a pale, promising blue. Monaco is still sleepy, the streets quiet save for the early-morning hum of street cleaners and the cry of gulls. The walk to the park feels ten times longer than it did yesterday. Leo trots beside you, sniffing the air, perfectly content. He has no idea of the international dog-swapping crisis currently unfolding.
As you approach the gates of the park, your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. The park is mostly empty. An elderly man throwing a ball for a golden retriever. A woman jogging on the perimeter path.
And then you see him.
He’s standing near the same bench from yesterday, looking out over the grass. And at his feet is a very familiar, very regal cream-colored dachshund.
Relief washes over you so intensely your knees feel weak.
“Gretchen!” You cry out.
Charles turns at the sound of your voice. His face breaks into a wide, relieved smile. Gretchen’s head snaps up, her ears perked, and the moment she sees you, her tail starts whipping back and forth like a metronome on high speed.
At the same time, Leo spots Charles and lets out a series of excited yips, pulling on the leash.
You half-walk, half-run towards each other, meeting in the middle of the lawn like soldiers being reunited in a black-and-white movie.
“I am so sorry,” you both say at the exact same time.
You stop a few feet from each other, a little breathless, and then you both start to laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, sleep-deprived, utterly relieved sound.
“I am so, so sorry,” you say again, crouching down to unleash Leo, who immediately bounds over to Charles, jumping up on his legs. “I didn’t even look. I just clipped the leash and walked away. I feel like the worst person on the planet.”
Charles is doing the same, unclipping Gretchen, who sprints the last few feet and practically leaps into your arms. You bury your face in her soft fur, inhaling her familiar dog-smell. “Oh, I missed you, you little monster.”
“Non, non, it is my fault,” Charles says, ruffling Leo’s ears. “I was … I think I was a bit distracted.” He looks up at you, and the meaning is clear in his warm eyes. “I am just happy you are here. I was not sure if you would come.”
“Where else would I go?” You say, stroking Gretchen’s back. “I had your dog hostage. I was about five minutes away from creating a city-wide amber alert.”
He chuckles. “I saw the tag on her collar.”
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh, god. You saw that.”
“The part about the ugly crying?” he says, his smile teasing. “It was very, uh, descriptive. I felt I had a responsibility to prevent this.”
“Mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.”
“I thought it was charming,” he says softly.
You look up, your cheeks flushing. “So, how was she? Was she a nightmare? Did she steal your side of the bed?”
He laughs. “She is a princess, for sure. She refused to eat from Leo’s bowl. She would not get on the sofa until I formally invited her. And yes, she sleeps horizontally. I think I had maybe ten centimeters of the bed last night.”
“That sounds about right,” you say, shaking your head. “Leo was an angel. He’s the world’s best cuddler. And he didn’t eat either. He just whined at Gretchen’s ‘Her Majesty’ bowl and looked at me like I was trying to poison him.”
“He is not used to such a fancy dish,” Charles says. “He is a simple man. A baguette.”
You both smile, the morning sun warming your faces. The dogs, happy to be with their rightful owners, are now sniffing each other again, their crisis averted, their world restored to its proper order.
An easy silence settles between you, filled with the relief of the situation being resolved. But underneath it, there’s a new tension. The excuse for seeing each other is gone. The dogs are back where they belong. This could be another goodbye.
You can’t let that happen.
He can’t let that happen.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a gesture you’re starting to find incredibly endearing. “To prevent, you know, a future canine mix-up of this magnitude …”
“… we should probably be more careful,” you finish for him, your heart starting to beat a little faster.
“Yes. That. But also, maybe I should have your number,” he says, his gaze direct and hopeful. “Just in case. For emergencies.”
“Right,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “Emergencies. Like if I accidentally take your dog again.”
“Exactly,” he says, a playful glint in his eye. “Or if, for example, I wanted to ask if you were free for dinner sometime, to properly apologize for my part in the dognapping.”
A huge, brilliant smile spreads across your face. “I think I could be free for that particular emergency.”
“Good,” he says, his own smile mirroring yours. “That is very good.”
You pull out your phone, and he pulls out his. You trade numbers, your fingers brushing as you hand his phone back to him. A tiny spark zings up your arm.
“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice low.
“Okay,” you breathe out.
He lingers for a moment, as if he doesn’t want to leave. “I never got your name yesterday.”
You tell him. He repeats it, testing it out, the sound of it in his accent making your stomach do a little flip.
“It was very nice to meet you. Properly, this time,” he says.
“You too, Charles.”
He gives a final scratch to Gretchen’s head. “Be good for your mother, Princess.” Then he looks at Leo. “Come on, baguette. Let’s go home.”
You watch him walk away, Leo trotting happily by his side. Just before he exits the park, he turns and gives you one last smile and a wave.
You wave back, your hand feeling floaty and light.
You look down at Gretchen, who is looking up at you with an expression that is somehow both smug and loving.
“Well,” you say, clipping her leash back onto her collar. “I guess you’re a pretty good wingwoman after all.”
Gretchen wags her tail, as if to say, ‘You’re welcome.’
now i want to know how dark teammate!max and carlos would be like ?? I think max will be worst 🧐
you've unleashed a beast within me-
bon's dark thoughts (18+)
let's start with carlos; you think that man's gonna let you outperform him for free? carlos' bad luck somehow has him behind you on points no matter how hard he tries and so I don't think he'll actively try to sabotage you, but he'll make it damn hard for you to live your life. during interviews, he'll say something mean about you, some snarky comment meant to undercut your efforts. during team meetings, he's sending you death glares and it isn't until one day when you yelled at him, he's shoving you into his driver room and having his way with your cute tight ass. his hairy hands are squeezing your tits until you're crying out loud in pain, his cock stuffed deep inside the hot cave of your ass, growling into your ear.
"perro arrogante," he hissed, nipping at your ear, "i've had enough of you, so stop fucking crying and take what i'm gonna give you."
you can do whatever you want during a race - within limits of course - but as soon as the day is done, you're riding with him on the plane and bouncing on his cock, maybe giving a nice show to charles just for the hell of it. it'll be a dirty little secret that this stunning driver is being reduced to carlos' little bitch every night.
as for max? there is no room for argument, there is no place in hell where you could hide from that man and act like he isn't going to drag you by your hair and use that mouth of yours until you're aching, your throat stuffed with enough cum that you can't even try to reason with him. right before every race, he's barging into your room and fucking you until you're reduced to a messy cumdump, being sure to ruin any energy you may have so that your performance weakens during the race. he'd want it to be humiliating, he'd want you to face defeat again and again, all while his cum ran down your legs. im thinking psychological torture, it's almost like he's handing you retirement on a silver plate, dangling it above your head so that you could quit and try to move on to another team but no, he's messing with your contract, he wants you to suffer.
did you really think he'd let you go that easily? no one ever dared to stand against him, he was a talented driver, he knew his own worth and when little miss high horse came in acting like she could do better than him, he was quick to put you in your place, even if it meant playing dirty. he'd have you spread out on his hotel bed after a race and you're already feeling gutted at the way you locked up earlier in the day, an embarrassing mistake that only happened because max drew out 3 orgasms from your poor body. he's parting your folds with his fingers, shaking his head with mock disappointment as he stares at his cum leaking from your hole.
"not enough, schatje, i'll have to give you a few more," and he's ignoring your whines of protest. even if you're begging for forgiveness, a chance to make this right, he won't let you go that easily. he's just chuckling lowly, the tip of his cock notching into your entrance with a phone in his hand.
"smile for me, schat!" he'd grin, taking a photo. he loved looking at you like this - beneath him and willing to do whatever he asked.
Gotta go off anon for this one. You are absolutely shattering any sane thoughts I had of this man. I feel like the last photo is how he would look at you in the dark!best friend! when he’s soooo sick of hearing you talk about the other people you’ve been seeing and are interested in and all he can think of is how stupid you are for not seeing how deeply he wants you to be his entirely. (All photos of him are gorgeous though, he’s so pretty)
-🪿
STOP YES OMG 😭 UGH he looks so gorgeous when hes pissed off or thinking deeply. i just know when you mention the third guy for the night, his hand is under the table palming his dick and thinking about all the way he could get you to shut up - the number one choice being shoving your head under the table and fucking your throat until your hoarse
okay yk i had to bring it back. hear me out guys. dark!ceo charles BUT you’re his business partner
bon’s dark thoughts (18+)
you sly dog, yknow what this reminds me of? idk if youve seen smallville, but there’s these episodes of clark kent as luthor in this alternate timeline, that’s what I’m imagining rn.
that cocky confident aura, a smile on his face with his dimples on display. youd be seated across from him, and he’d let his eyes wander over your curves, the way your blouse was straining against your tits, the buttons threatening to pop off any second. he thought it was cute that you were here acting like you owned the place and in the walls of the bleak conference room, he could smell the sweet scent of your perfume.
dark!ceo!charles slid his new policy paper over to you, eagerly waiting for you to sign. he noticed the way you chewed on your pen, reading the terms and agreements carefully before you frowned and glanced at one specific line.
“70-30?” you asked, “that’s hardly a fair deal. it should be 50-50.”
“well im funding most of the venture, ma cherié,” charles’ smile faltered ever so slightly at the way your brows furrowed together.
“but im the one executing it and marketing it to the public,” you snapped, which caused charles to raise his eyebrows. oh, so you were challenging him? trying to change his plans? he respected you only because of your position as his business partner and if it wasn’t for that, he deemed you good for sucking his cock under his desk as he worked. but here this little bitch was trying to dictate things she could hardly ever comprehend. when you slid the paper back to him, his patience snapped and he grabbed you by the throat, dragging you over the table.
“listen here, cunt,” he spat, “either you sign this deal or i make your life a living hell.”
and perhaps to further drive his point, he used his tie to bind your hands together, your clothes long gone with your legs spread. he purposely left the blinds open so his office could see what happened to sluts that thought they could order him around.
“i go out of my way to entertain your tiny little business and you decide to be an ungrateful whore,” he snarled, his hand repeatedly striking your cunt as your legs shook with the force of each slap. you cried out loud, your mouth gagged with your underwear. this was absolutely humiliating and you shuddered when he spat right onto your clit, his thumb pressing insistently on the bundle of nerves until you were shaking your head and sobbing.
“sign the deal, salope,” he murmured, “sign the deal or i’ll ruin your business, i’ll make you bankrupt don’t test me…”
when you reluctantly signed the paper, your hands shaking as your tears blotted the paper, he grabbed you by your hair and whispered into your ear,
“good girl, such a good girl,” he cooed, “finally knowing your place, i think you’ve earned my cock…”
there was an email addressed to you later that night about a potential merger between the two companies, and an extra note from charles that you were moving into his estate…
Summary: You lost a reckless bet to your brother’s arrogant teammate, and now that he’s done the impossible, he’s at your door to collect the one prize he wants more than the podium
Warnings: allusion to 18+ content but no actual descriptions of 18+ content
The knock comes at 2:36 AM.
It’s sharp, confident. Not the sloppy, drunken drumming of a celebratory mechanic, nor the polite tap of hotel staff. It’s three precise raps that vibrate straight through the heavy door of your Baku hotel room.
You groan, pulling the plush pillow over your head. The party was … a lot. Celebrating. Celebrating him. Celebrating the impossible. P3. For Williams.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Louder this time. Insistent.
“Go away!” You yell, your voice muffled by down feathers.
A pause. Then, a voice, equally clear, cuts through the wood. “I know you are in there, Y/N. And I know you are awake.”
Your blood turns to ice, then immediately to fire.
Carlos.
You throw the pillow off. Of course. Of course he wouldn’t just let the podium be enough. He has to gloat. He has to rub it in.
You storm to the door, yanking your hotel robe tighter around your waist. You don’t even check the peephole. You swing the door open, ready to deliver a speech about sportsmanship, about team spirit, about how this one fluke doesn’t mean anything.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. He’s changed out of his race suit and the champagne-soaked team kit. He’s just in denim and a black t-shirt that strains, just slightly, across his shoulders. He looks exhausted, rumpled, and unfairly, infuriatingly handsome. His hair is a mess of post-celebration curls, and he smells like victory, champagne, and something musky and expensive.
He just smiles. A slow, lazy curve of his lips.
“Lost, Carlos?” You snap.
“No, preciosa.” His voice is a low rumble, the Spanish accent thicker now that the adrenaline has faded. “I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”
He makes to step inside. You plant your hand flat on his chest, a surprisingly solid wall of muscle. “Wrong. Your room is … somewhere else. Alex’s room is two doors down if you want to keep celebrating with the team.”
“I am done celebrating with Alex.” His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, drop to your hand on his chest, then back to your face. “I am here to see you.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You got your podium. Congratulations.” You try to push him back, to close the door, but it’s like trying to move a very smug, very well-built statue.
He catches your wrist. Not hard, but firmly. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, which is currently hammering like a faulty engine.
“Ah, but we do have something to talk about,” he says, his smile widening. He gently moves your hand aside and steps past you, into your room.
You spin around. “You can’t just barge in here! It’s two in the morning!”
“You opened the door.” He wanders toward the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the glittering Baku skyline. “Nice view.”
“Carlos. Get out.”
“No.” He turns, folding his arms. The casual confidence rolls off him in waves, filling the space, suffocating you. “I am a man of my word. And I expect the same from you.”
A cold dread snakes down your spine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He laughs. A real, throaty laugh. “Joder, you are just like him. So stubborn.” He takes a step toward you. “Do not play stupid, Y/N. It does not suit you. We made a bet.”
You back up, hitting the edge of the luggage rack. “That was … that was stupid garage talk. Banter. It wasn’t real.”
“It was very real.” He takes another step. You’re trapped between him and the wall. “I recall the terms perfectly. It was … let me think … in the hospitality unit in Miami. You were telling me that … how did you put it? That I was ‘just passing through.’ That Alex was the ‘real heart’ of Williams.”
“He is.”
“And that if anyone was going to ‘restore glory to the team,’ it would be your brother. Not the ‘arrogant Spaniard.’” He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “Do you remember what I said?”
You swallow, refusing to look away. “Something cocky, I’m sure.”
“I said, ‘We will see.’ And you said, ‘Put your money where your mouth is, Sainz.’ And I said … ‘I have a better idea.’”
He’s so close now. His eyes are tracing your features, lingering on your mouth.
“The bet,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret. “The first one of us to get a podium for Williams. Alex, or me. And if I won …“
“It was a joke,” you insist, your voice smaller than you want.
“I am not joking.” His gaze is intense, unwavering. “If I won … I could do anything I wanted with you.”
The silence in the room is deafening, broken only by the distant sound of traffic. He just watches you, waiting.
“You won,” you finally choke out. “Fine. You won. What do you want?” You try to regain some footing, pushing off the wall. “You want me to … what? Buy you dinner for the rest of the season? Wear a Sainz #55 cap to Singapore? Post on Instagram that you’re the greatest driver since Senna?”
His expression doesn’t change, but a new, dangerous amusement sparkles in his eyes.
“You think … this is for dinner?” He asks softly. “You think, after pulling a miracle out of that car … after fighting off a Merc for ten laps on dead tyres … that I am here to collect … dinner?”
“Then what, Carlos? You want a kiss? You want me to bow down? Just name your stupid prize so you can get out of my room.”
He shakes his head, a slow, predatory motion. “You said it yourself, preciosa. The prize is … anything I want.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair back from your face. You flinch, but you don’t pull away.
“And I have been thinking about my ‘anything’ for a very long time,” he murmurs. “I thought about it in Imola, when you told me I was ‘too aggressive’ in my setup feedback. I thought about it in Silverstone, when you told me Alex understood the car better. And I definitely thought about it today, on that podium. Standing there, listening to the anthems … all I could think about was coming here. Finding you.”
“Carlos …“ Your voice is a bare whisper. This isn’t gloating. This is something else.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” He asks, his thumb now tracing the line of your jaw.
“I … I don’t … I think you’re arrogant,” you stammer.
“Good.” His lips are inches from yours. “I think you are … impossible. You are stubborn, you are too loyal, and you look at me like you want to key my car.”
“I would never-“
“But,” he cuts you off, “you also cannot look away. Not really.”
He’s right. You haven’t blinked.
“So, what’s the prize?” You breathe.
He smiles, and it’s devastating. “The prize … is that you stop fighting me.”
“That’s not-“
“The prize,” he interrupts, his voice dropping an octave, becoming gravelly and thick, “is that you are going to pay, in full. And I am, mmm, a very thorough man. I like to collect my debts.”
He leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You shudder, your hands gripping the fabric of your robe.
“I want,” he whispers, his hot breath sending goosebumps down your entire body, “to make you unable to walk tomorrow.”
Your breath catches in your throat. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a statement of fact. A declaration of intent.
“You … you can’t be serious,” you whisper, but the protest is weak, lost in the sudden, frantic beating of your heart.
“Oh, I am serious,” he murmurs against your neck. “I am very serious. I want to see you tomorrow at the airport. I want to see you try to walk normally. I want to see you look at Alex, and look at me … and know that I won. In every way.”
“You are insane,” you gasp, as his hand leaves your jaw and slides down, slowly, over your collarbone, to the tie of your robe.
“I am Spanish,” he corrects, his fingers finding the knot. “It is almost the same thing.” He pulls, just slightly, and the robe loosens. “You have been fighting me since the day I signed the contract, Y/N. You have been looking at me with … fire. So much fire. Always defending your brother.”
His other hand plants on the wall beside your head, caging you in. “But tonight … you are not Alex Albon’s sister.”
His lips find your throat. A soft, open-mouthed kiss that makes your knees buckle. You let out a small, involuntary sound.
“Tonight,” he continues, his mouth moving slowly toward yours, “you are just the woman who lost a very, very stupid bet.”
“I hate you,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering closed.
“I know.” His lips hover just a millimeter from yours. “You can hate me all night. You can hate me in the morning.”
He waits. It’s the longest second of your life. He’s not just taking his prize. He’s making you give it to him.
“You …“ you whisper. “You better be as good as you think you are, Sainz.”
A low, rumbling laugh vibrates through his chest, and then he closes the distance.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a conquest. It’s every bit of the pent-up frustration, the garage arguments, the side-eyes, and the simmering rivalry, all exploding at once. It’s demanding, and deep, and tastes of champagne and victory and a confidence you’ve always mistaken for arrogance.
Your hands, which were braced against his chest, suddenly fist in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. You kiss him back with all the fire he saw in you, all the fight that has nowhere else to go. It’s a surrender, but it feels like a battle.
He groans, breaking the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are panting, the air in the room thick and electric.
“So,” he pants, his eyes black with desire. “You are ready to pay?”
“I … I think you’re going to make me pay whether I’m ready or not.”
“True.”
In one swift, athletic movement that reminds you just how strong a Formula 1 driver has to be, he hooks an arm under your knees and lifts you.
You gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. “Carlos! Put me down!”
“No.” He starts walking toward the bed. “This is … more efficient.”
“This is crazy! My brother is two doors down!”
“Then you will have to be quiet, no?” He says, with a wolfish grin.
He doesn’t drop you. He lays you gently on the king-sized bed, the white sheets cool against your skin. He follows, bracing himself over you, one knee slotting between yours. The city lights from the window cast him in silhouette, all broad shoulders and focused intensity.
“You are absolutely, one hundred percent insane,” you say, your voice trembling.
“And you,” he counters, his fingers returning to the tie on your robe, “are a terrible loser.”
He pulls the knot. The robe falls open.
His eyes darken, a slow, appreciative heat that burns you from the inside out.
“But madre mia,” he whispers, his gaze locking with yours. “You have no idea how good it feels to finally win.”
He lowers his head, and you know, with absolute certainty, that he wasn’t joking.
Look, you're all about supporting women, but a doctor that is going to see all of you should probably not be crying while she does it. I mean it's mortifying enough that the only people that have ever seen down there are you and the crying doctor giving you a pap smear.
The doctor who looks like she is in the middle of a panic attack, standing zo wound op tight that you see here neck muscle tens a she says
‘’I'm fine" While breathing so hard you just know she is not fine. She still works efficiently enough and you're done pretty quickly, luckily enough. And you think you can forget all about here besides laughing about the situation with the one friend you have working at Williams as one of the media personnel.
And look, you know you work with social media so people think you must love attention, well you don’t. So when you walk with your friend while holding a cricket racket in the middle of the paddock, because people apparently like watching athletes doing sports they are terrible at.
You feel just as wind up tight as your doctor from 5 weeks ago, because only you can feel this nervous from having to work with the most important people in the team, who are of course throwing cricket balls at each other. While you start feeling dizzy with each step you take closer to the drivers.
‘’Fuck”
You can’t even be mad at yourself for saying it, because passing out after you say it is definitely worse. Luckily for you you’re right in front of the drivers and all the photographers, who are taking pictures while you go down.
Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more
Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse
“You’re doing it again.”
You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.
“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.
“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”
You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”
You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.
He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.
You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”
It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.
You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”
“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”
You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen.
Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.
“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”
You freeze. “What invitations?”
He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”
Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”
He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”
“No.”
It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.
Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”
“I’m not going.”
“You haven’t even heard-”
“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”
“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.
You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.
Vincent notices. His expression hardens.
“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”
“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”
You flinch like he’s hit you.
He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”
You say nothing.
“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”
“Then go,” you say quietly.
“You’re my girlfriend.”
You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.
Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”
Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.
“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”
You’re already shaking your head.
“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”
“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.
Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”
“Don’t,” you snap.
He stops.
“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”
Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”
The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.
You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.
You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.
Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”
You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.
“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”
You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.
So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”
His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”
You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.
Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.
Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.
You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.
You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”
You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.
***
The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.
Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.
“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.
You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”
The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.
You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.
Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.
By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.
***
Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.
A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.
Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”
You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.
The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.
Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.
You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.
You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.
“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.
You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.
Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.
***
The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.
You stare at the chandelier.
It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.
You can’t do this.
You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”
He glances up. “Now?”
“I’ll just be a second.”
He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.
You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.
You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.
You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.
He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”
Your throat closes.
He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”
You nod slowly. “Hi.”
He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”
You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”
He hands it to you without a word.
***
You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.
The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.
You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.
It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.
You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.
A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.
“You okay?”
You jump.
It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”
She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”
You force a smile. “Maybe.”
The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”
The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”
You nod. And then they’re gone.
***
By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.
He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”
“Out.”
“You disappeared.”
“I texted.”
“You didn’t.”
You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.
Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”
You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”
He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”
You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.
It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.
Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.
You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.
“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.
He pauses. “Who?”
“Just … someone from before.”
He looks confused. “From school?”
“No. From before that.”
A beat.
“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”
You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”
He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.
Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”
You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.
You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.
***
“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”
He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”
Your stomach drops.
“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”
Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”
Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”
“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”
You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”
“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”
Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”
He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”
You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”
“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”
You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”
He doesn’t flinch.
You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.
Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”
The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.
“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”
But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”
He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.
***
The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.
Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.
The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.
“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”
You try. It doesn’t work.
Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.
Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.
You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.
You stop walking.
“I need a second,” you whisper.
Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”
“I just need-”
Too late.
There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.
You turn the other way.
And that’s when you hear it.
“Y/N?”
It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.
You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.
It’s Charles.
The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Y/N, wait!”
You don’t wait. You bolt.
Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.
You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.
You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.
In. Out. In.
It doesn’t work.
Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-
But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.
You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.
You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.
You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”
But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.
***
You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.
Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.
You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.
***
Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.
You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.
By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.
“Are you kidding me?”
You don’t respond.
He slams the door. “You ran.”
You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.
“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”
“I had a panic attack.”
That stops him cold.
You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.
His mouth opens. Then shuts.
You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”
Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”
“No. You didn’t.”
He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”
“You lied.”
“I was trying to help you move on.”
You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”
You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”
He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.
“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”
You don’t answer.
When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.
Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.
Are you okay?
You stare.
No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.
Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.
Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.
But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.
***
The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.
You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.
But then Vincent speaks.
“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”
You stiffen. “Leave for where?”
He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”
Your stomach churns.
“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.
“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.
“I can’t.”
Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”
“I had a panic attack yesterday.”
“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”
You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”
You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.
***
The paddock club is worse than you expected.
Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.
You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.
“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”
You turn to him. “I am.”
He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.
The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.
And then-
“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”
The suite erupts.
The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.
Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.
You stand. Too fast.
“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”
But no one hears you.
You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.
You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.
You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.
The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.
And that’s when you finally break.
You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.
You cry until you choke.
***
It’s hours before he finds you.
Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.
Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.
And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.
He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.
“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.
You flinch.
“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”
Your breathing hitches.
You don’t look up.
He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.
“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”
Tears slip down your cheeks again.
“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”
Your head lifts.
And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.
Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.
“Puis-je? Can I?”
You nod.
His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.
“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”
A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.
He pulls you into him.
You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.
“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”
In. Out.
“Comme ça. Like that.”
You match his rhythm, barely.
His voice is a metronome.
“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”
You nod, weakly.
“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”
That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.
Charles strokes your back slowly.
“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”
Another breath. This one deeper.
“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”
Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.
And still, Charles doesn’t let go.
“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”
You nod again, unable to speak.
He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.
***
The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.
He closes the door quietly behind you.
“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”
He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”
You sit.
He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.
“I won,” he says quietly.
You blink.
“What?”
“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”
A beat.
Your eyes widen.
“You — Charles.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.
“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”
He steps forward.
“No.”
You stop.
“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”
Your throat tightens.
He steps closer.
“When I saw you again.”
You try to look away.
He tilts your chin up with two fingers.
“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”
You look up at him — really look.
And the boy you knew is still there.
Not buried. Not broken.
Just older. Like you.
You nod, slowly.
“I’m breathing,” you whisper.
His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”
Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.
***
The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.
Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.
He glances at you at a red light.
“You okay?”
You nod.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”
“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”
The light turns green.
The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.
His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.
And dog.
Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.
“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”
Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.
You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”
Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”
“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”
“He’s a Leclerc.”
You snort. “Touché.”
Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.
Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.
“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”
***
The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.
You sip, then drain the whole glass.
“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”
Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”
“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”
“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”
He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”
The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.
You don’t speak at first.
The food is too good.
Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.
Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“You won Monaco.”
“And I found you again.”
Your heart stumbles.
He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”
You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I ran.”
“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”
You blink.
He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”
You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.
“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”
Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.
“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”
“I know.”
You glance at him. “You do?”
He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”
You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.
“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”
“So why didn’t you?”
His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”
You nod. “Me too.”
He turns back to you.
“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.
You hesitate.
“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”
Charles swallows. “I hate that.”
“Me too.”
His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”
You blink. “You do?”
“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”
You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”
He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.
“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”
“I threw a spoon at him.”
“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”
You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.
Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”
You glance up at him.
The look between you settles deep.
Warm. Familiar. Real.
He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.
Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.
“I’m glad you came.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know,” he says. “But you did.”
You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.
Not like glass.
Like thaw.
Like something cold finally learning warmth again.
You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.
“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.
“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.
You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.
Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”
You take it without question.
***
The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.
Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.
“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”
You nod. Then pause.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.
You look at him.
“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”
You nod.
He starts to leave, then turns back.
“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”
You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.
“You always mattered more.”
He smiles. Small. Real.
“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.
The door clicks softly behind him.
You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.
***
Back then, everything was simpler.
You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.
“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”
Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”
“Like … twenty-five.”
He snorts. “That’s not old.”
You grin. “Feels ancient.”
He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”
You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”
“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”
You go quiet.
He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.
You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”
Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.
He looks at you then — really looks.
And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.
It’s a promise.
Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.
You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”
He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”
“Never.”
You meant it. So did he.
***
You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.
And then-
Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.
“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”
The door creaks open.
“You’re awake.”
Charles is holding a tray.
“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.
His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.
“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.
You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.
“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”
You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”
“I go every Monday.”
You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.
Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”
You look at him. Hard.
He holds your gaze.
“Because I missed you,” he adds.
You bite your lip.
“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”
Your chest tightens.
“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”
You stare at the tray again.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”
“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”
You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.
Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.
You shake your head. “It’s too much.”
“I can take it.”
You exhale, staring at your hands.
“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”
Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”
“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”
“Fuck that.”
You blink.
He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”
A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”
“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”
You look at him.
“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”
You nod, fast, eyes blurry.
“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”
He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”
You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.
“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”
“I know.”
Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.
Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.
And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.
It feels like a bridge.
***
Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.
“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.
“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”
“And then you fell.”
“I leapt.”
“You cried.”
“I landed emotionally.”
You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.
Charles grins, slouched and easy.
“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.
He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”
“Yeah. Before everything.”
“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”
You fall quiet.
You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.
You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”
“For what?” Charles asks.
“To feel this again.”
He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”
You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”
He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”
The dachshund barks on cue.
You smile.
“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.
Your brows rise.
He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”
You hesitate.
Then nod. “Okay.”
A beat.
Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”
You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”
He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”
***
The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.
You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.
“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.
You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”
You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.
He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”
You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”
“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”
You bite your lip.
“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”
You nod, chest tight.
The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.
And then-
“Y/N?”
You stop cold.
You know that voice.
Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.
Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.
You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.
He blinks once. Then twice.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”
The air shifts.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”
Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”
“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.
His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”
“Vincent-”
“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”
Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.
“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”
“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.
“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”
You flinch.
Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”
Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”
Silence.
The world tilts.
Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”
“I left because of you,” you whisper.
He blinks.
“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”
Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.
“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”
He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”
You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.
Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”
You glance at Charles.
“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”
That does something to you.
But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.
You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.
“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”
“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”
He swallows.
“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”
“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.
***
That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.
You don’t go back to the hotel either.
You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.
Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.
You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.
You whisper, “I’m so tired.”
And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.
Not quiet. Not graceful.
You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.
You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.
And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.
He finds you there, curled in on yourself.
You don’t look up.
Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.
You exhale, broken and sharp.
“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”
He matches his breath to yours.
You inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
Again.
Your body starts to slow.
You lean into him.
“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.
You nod into his chest.
He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.
When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”
He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”
You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”
“I get it,” he says. “I do.”
You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”
He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”
He pauses.
“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”
You close your eyes.
“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”
You whisper, “But he was so good.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to be like him.”
“You were.”
You finally meet his eyes.
Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”
Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.
“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.
“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”
***
You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.
But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.
The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”
You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.
It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.
But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”
So you’re here. And you’re trying.
You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.
You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.
Marion doesn’t push.
Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.
“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”
You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.
“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”
You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.
“I want to try,” you say.
And for the first time in years, you mean it.
***
Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.
It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.
Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.
He doesn’t ask too many questions.
He doesn’t hover.
He’s just there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.
You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”
He nods.
“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”
“I know.”
“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”
Charles exhales slowly.
You feel his breath against your hair.
“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”
He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.
“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”
You squeeze his hand.
That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.
***
The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Back and forth. Left and right.
You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.
It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.
But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.
You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.
“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.
“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”
You smile at the ceiling.
And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.
Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.
***
Vincent texts twice.
The first is vague.
We should talk.
The second is manipulative.
I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.
You don’t answer.
You don’t owe him that anymore.
Instead, you text Charles.
Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.
He sends back.
Come to Fiorano.
You blink at the screen.
Fiorano?
Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.
You stare at the message.
I’ll think about it.
But you already know you’re going.
***
It takes three trains to get to Maranello.
You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.
When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.
A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”
You nod.
You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.
When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.
Charles is out there.
Not Charles your childhood best friend.
Not Charles your heartbreak.
Not Charles your anchor.
Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.
The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.
You watch.
He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.
You’ve never seen anyone so alive.
Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.
You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.
And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.
He doesn’t wave.
He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.
You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.
And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.
It feels like memory.
It feels like home.
***
The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.
You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.
The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.
You hover at the gate longer than you should.
And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-
“Ma chérie-”
You go.
You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.
Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.
There’s grief there.
And love.
And something like relief.
“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.
“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”
“Charles?”
You nod.
She smiles.
The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.
You don’t go upstairs.
Not yet.
Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.
***
Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.
“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.
Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.
“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.
You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”
“I train now,” he says, smug.
Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.
“You okay?”
“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”
He nods. That’s enough.
The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.
You laugh too much. You drink too fast.
Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.
At one point, you catch him watching you.
He doesn’t look away.
***
After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.
You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.
Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.
“Were you-”
“No,” Charles says, too fast.
“Yes,” you say, at the same time.
Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.
But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.
***
Later, the house grows quiet.
Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”
Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.
And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.
“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.
“To your room?”
You nod.
He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”
You nod again.
***
Your bedroom is a time capsule.
The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.
Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.
He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”
“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”
“I know.”
You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”
“Are you?”
You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”
Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.
“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”
Your chest tightens.
“I know.”
“But I also knew why.”
You stare at the floor between you.
“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”
He doesn’t move.
“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”
He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.
You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.
“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”
It hits like a second heartbeat.
You close your eyes.
“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”
He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”
You look at him. Really look.
“I’m scared,” you say.
“So am I,” he murmurs.
And then-
Then he kisses you.
Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.
You kiss him back.
There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.
Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.
You pull back first, eyes wide.
“I-”
But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.
“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”
You do.
You stay.
***
It’s been a year.
Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.
Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.
Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.
A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.
“Is this real?” You ask.
Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.
“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”
You look up. Your throat tightens.
“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”
You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”
You blink fast. “Of Charles?”
“Of both of you.”
***
You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.
The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.
You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.
The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.
From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.
You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.
You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.
You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.
Now-
You watch him fly.
***
Lap after lap.
Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.
You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.
You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.
You see Charles.
You see yourself.
You see surviving.
***
He crosses the finish line first.
The garage explodes in noise.
People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.
You don’t move.
Not at first.
You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.
Then a hand grabs yours.
It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”
***
The pit lane is chaos.
Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.
The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.
He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.
You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.
But then-
He turns.
And his eyes find you like they always do.
He doesn’t walk.
He runs.
He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.
“You made it,” he says.
You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.
“So did you.”
He kisses you.
Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.
It’s not hesitant this time.
It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.
***
Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.
He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.
“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.
“Winning Monaco?”
You nod.
He glances at you. Smiles.
“Better with you here.”
Your breath catches.
“I’m proud of you,” you say.
His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”
You grin. “So modest.”
He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.
Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”
And you believe him.
For the first time, you really do.
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