kachow

[leclerc-hs]

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MY PATREON!

forza ferrari ♡

follow my 2nd acct @leclerchs-reads for stories i like!!!! xoxo

[leclerc-hs]

Omfg I hit send on the last ask and realized I accidentally trauma dumped im so sorry

GIRLLLLL I just read these.

1. HELLO I missed you

2. I AM SO SORRY ABOUT YOUR DAD wtfff that’s literally so terrible, I hope you’re doing okay. If you literally ever need to talk, I’m here (sorry I disappeared for a while I just really needed a break away from this app). Anyways, I’m thinking of you!! I hope everything is going okay with you

Xoxo

[leclerc-hs]

sooooo fill me in guys

how’s it been???? gimme some recs to read PLSSS I haven’t read anything on here in months, I’m ready to eat.

how do you guys feel about this season??

[leclerc-hs]

my face logging back in for the first time in months & seeing that oscar’s version of romantic chocolates having over 8k likes

[leclerc-hs]

i hope you’re alright 💗 your writing is actually the first fanfiction i ever read, and it helped me get into writing more!!

coming back on for the first time in almost 7 months and seeing this is making me smile so much. I’m so happy that it’s helped you get into writing!!! I wanna read some of your stuff if you’d ever like to share :)

Xoxo

[leclerc-hs]

Hi favvvv, hope you’re doing well ❣️

hi cutie

i’m feeling a bit better today! finally built the courage to log back in :)))) missed all of you so much, it honestly felt like a part of me was missing without going on here. But mentally, I just really needed the break.

I hope you’re doing well also!!!! I’m hoping to get back into writing soon :))))

[leclerc-hs]

hi my angelssss 💌

I just wanted to come on and 1. Say HIIII I missed you all so much.

2. I’m literally so sorry for just disappearing.

Like seriously, I’m so sorry for just leaving so suddenly without a word really, but to be honest my mental state just wasn’t that great at the time and I actually deleted the app off my devices & then didn’t allow myself to log back in until I was feeling better.

Looking back, I obviously wish I said more to you guys as I LOVE YOU ALLLLLL (I know it might’ve not felt that way and I’m sorry)

Anyways, this is my first time logging back into tumblr since January. I contemplated coming back on a few times here and there but honestly, for some reason I was scared to??? Idk why I was nervous I’d have mean messages I guess or something so I didn’t want to log back in until I felt ready.

Anyways, I love you all. Not sure exactly when I’ll be writing again (I might just start slow with little drabbles until I can get my inspiration and passion for writing back)

ANYWAYS TALK TO ME!! I WANNA HEAR EVERYTHING I’VE MISSED

XOXOX

[leclerc-hs]

the way you left tumblr feels like my dad went market to buy milk </3

I'm sorryyyy ☹ (I'm back....kinda?)

[leclerc-hs]

oh girl im so so sorry for your loss </3 take the time to heal and i hope it will get better soon

🍷<3

thank you <3333

[leclerc-hs]

chiaroscuro - cl16

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.

“Good.”

[leclerc-hs]

heatwave - cl16

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 :( ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

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.

But it kind of feels like peace.

[leclerc-hs]

hi my lovely readers (I missed you all a lot)

I just want to start off by saying so sorry for my absence, a lot of shit has been going on in my life and my mental headspace is just not great right now. one of my aunt's passed away a few days prior to christmas and so I've just been with my family and ignoring a lot of social media for the last few weeks. please forgive me, I apologize for not giving an update sooner. I will post heatwave right now & chiaroscuro part 1 later tonight (just to space it out) for you guys. forgive me :(

in the mean time, my patreon has been paused (no one will be billed until I decide I'm ready to write again)

I love you all (truly), I'm just honestly not in the right headspace and haven't been wanting to write at all the past few weeks.

I hope you all had a great christmas and happy new year <3

I promise I'll be back with something as soon as I'm ready xoxo

[leclerc-hs]

You okay bb? 🥺

hi hi! yes i am soooo sorry, i thought i had it scheduled to post because I had a work christmas party yesterday & knew i wouldn't be able to get onto tumblr but it.didn't.post. :(

forgive me!!! life is just sooooo crazy around the holidays for me especially in between two jobs and stuff.

I just posted the story. love u!!! thank u for asking <3333

[leclerc-hs]

and they were roommates - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x roomate!fem!reader summary: in which you and charles are roommates OR charles is obsessed with you and you're oblivious. warnings: slight yearning, cute, fun, some angst (not really), smut!!!!, 18+, NOT PROOFREAD!!! word count: 6k author's note: hi hi!! forgive me for this being posted late! thought it was on a scheduled post but it just did not do it?? anyways, hope y'all enjoy. to my patreon babies, i am working on the next piece for chiaroscuro and will prob post a sneaky of sometime this week <3 xoxo

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You’d known Charles through mutual friends for a pretty long time. Long enough that you were familiar with each other. Probably not enough to be living with him.

But when your lease fell through, he offered without an ounce of hesitation. M’hardly home anyways he shrugged at the last gathering you were at. Better you than some stranger, yeah? 

And somehow…only a week later, you were pushing your suitcases onto his polished wood floors.

The wheels squeaked as you pushed them through the door. And Charles was on the couch already. A leg stretched out, sweats on. Practically sprawled along it. He looks at you with a slow grin.

“Took y’long enough…I was expecting y’like hours ago.”

“Traffic.” You let your tote bag fall to the floor with a. Thud. “Also…your building has way too many doors.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Our.”

“What?” Your eyebrows furrow.

“It’s our building now, cherie.” He smirks. Eyes slightly glinting.

You huff, kicking your shoes off. “Pretty sure it’s not my name on the lease.”

“There is no lease.” His smirk grows. “I own this, yeah?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah…must be nice.”

“It is.” He says like a promise. “You’ll see.”

-

Charles thinks he’s fucking ridiculous.

He’s a grown man for crying out loud. Travels the world…has signed contracts worth more than most people’s lifetime earnings. He can sit in a car at three hundred plus kilometers an hour and barely bat an eyelash from it.

But you? Walking through the condo with your hair tied up and shoes kicked off by the front door? It undoes him. Sends his heart spiraling.

It’s not like its new either. He’s always liked you. Not in a obvious way.

Like that one dinner a few summers ago when he could barely focus on his own conversation because you were laughing. Hand over your mouth like you couldn’t even help it. And he remembers thinking that’s unfair and staring at the open space over your shoulder until the heat left his cheeks.

Remembers the one time when it rained so hard that you stole his hoodie. Pretended it annoyed him. But he remembers wishing he could pause time right then and there.

It makes him feel like a fucking teenager again.

The way he paces without meaning to sometimes. Has to tell himself like some mantra that its just because he’s not used to sharing space. But he can’t stop looking at you. Can’t stop memorizing the way you chew the inside of your cheek or the corner of your nail whenever you’re hyper focused on something.

He swears he almost died the first morning he walked out to you cooking breakfast. Like it was some fucking fever dream.

And it wasn’t even anything dramatic. Just you standing at the stove. Hair slightly messy from sleep. Wearing some worn, oversized t-shirt. Humming off key while the smell of butter fills the condo.

And he stood frozen in the archway like a fucking freak. Because you looked too normal there. Too right.

“Morning,” you glance over your shoulder.

“Mm…” He clears his throat. “Morning.” And then he steps in, leaning against the counter. “You…you can cook?”

You snort. Your way of saying yes, dumbass.

Charles grins. “I can cook too.”

You whip your head, fully looking at him now. “No…no, you definitely cannot.”

“I can,” he insists. Even though he knows its a lie.

“Y’do know I was there that time y’tried to boil pasta, right? At Joris’s…set off the fire alarm.”

He groans. Lets out a laugh. “That was…years ago…I’ve learned I swear.”

“Y’really put almost no water in the pot.”

His ears turn red. “I was distracted.”

You shake your head, grinning wide. Laughing with your head fallen a little back. “Just stick to your cars, Leclerc.” And then your flipping an omelet onto a plate. Placing it near him.

He picks up a fork from the drawer. Trying everything and anything to ignore the burst of warmth in his chest just from your laugh. “S’better than yours,” he lies, takes a bite of the eggs.

He swears they’re the best eggs he’s ever eaten. Probably just because it’s youwho made them. But he won’t admit that. Not out loud, at least.

-

There’s always a mug left on the counter. Half-finished….or half-full. However you wanna look at it.

Tea gone cold in it. A faint mark of your lip gloss at the rim.

Charles rinses it the same way he always does. His thumb grazing the edge just before the water and soap washes it away. And he’ll grouch about it sometimes. Muttering it loud enough so that you do hear. But he never means it. Because the mugs have become part of the apartment now. Part of your loop.

“Don’t throw that one!” You call from the living room.

He glances over his shoulder as he leans over the skin. Catches the sight of you curled on the couch, laptop on your knees. “Why not?”

“Cause m’not done.”

“Y’never finish them.”

“Yeah…well I might this time.”

Charles laughs. Tips the mug into the sink anyways. The pattern. The predictability. You.

He dries his hand on one of the bunched up dish towels tossed on the counter. Walks over to the couch and drops onto it with a small huff. The cushions dip with the weight of his body. Your shoulder bumping his before you get a chance to scoot over to make more room. But you never make much space for him.

“Y’left your shoes in the hallway again.” He says. Stretching his legs out so one of them brushes against yours.

“You’ll survive.”

“Y’say that…then I’ll break my ankle.”

“Always the dramatic one.”

He smirks. Lets his head fall back against the back of the couch cushions. His grey t-shirt is soft and worn. It makes him look more boyish. And you don’t even realize how you’re cataloguing it. The same way he’s been cataloguing you.

“You’re ignoring me, cherie.” He says after a few moments of silence.

“Am not….m’just busy.”

He leans closer. Chin practically digging into the skin of your shoulder as he looks at your laptop screen. “Busy? That’s literally a shopping cart.”

You laugh. Shove his chest lightly. “Don’t judge me….y’literally sit on your sim for hours.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“Yeah…well, you don’t need to do it for as long as y’do.”

Charles tips his head at your laptop. Eyes crinkled a bit. “Another green sweater?”

“It’s sage.”

“They’re all the same, cherie. Green…oversized…too warm.”

“Comfortable, y’mean?” You grin.

He hums. Taps his fingers against the arm rest of the couch a few times. Something he does when he feels restless.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” You ask, shutting your laptop. Setting it aside on the table.

“Tomorrow?” He tilts his head like he can’t remember what day of the week it even is.

“Yeah. Groceries…laundry…that trip to buy a new rug we so happen to keep putting off?”

“Boring.” His lips curl. “But yeah, that’s fine.”

“Y’say it like y’don’t love rug shopping.”

“You pick them out…I just carry them.”

“It’s a team effort.” You grin.

The blanket slips off your shoulder. Charles hooks it back without thinking. Fingers brushing your arm.

“Yeah….yeah” he mumbles. “Team effort.”

Your playlist loops back to the first song again. And you hum to it without even realizing, your head falling against his shoulder.

And Charles stays perfectly still while listening.

-

You don’t really know when it started.

When you began noticing him the way you do now.

Because he isn’t just Charles. No. He’s the sound of the door opening and closing at weird hours. He’s the way the couch dips when he drops onto it.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That you just live together. That anyone would do these things. Catalogue a person without even meaning to.

But sometimes you catch yourself starting at him longer than you should. At his messy hair in the morning. At the veins on his hands whenever you ask him to open something for you. At the corners of his lips whenever he says your name.

It gives you butterflies. Stupid butterflies. Because Charles doesn’t look at you like that. Not really. He’s got a crazy life. Fast cars. Fans. Models. And you’re just…here. His roommate. A friend.

But it still sneaks up on you.

Like mornings when you’re half asleep, begging for the tea to be done. And he’s just padding around in sweatpants. No shirt. Voice low.

And your stomach flips every fucking time because its cozy. Homey.

Or even the nights whenever he comes in late. Tired. Dropping his keys on the counter and then flopping onto the couch beside you. Close. Always too close. Thigh pressed to yours. Arm sprawled behind you.

But sometimes….when you catch him over the rim of your mug. His eyes soft and smiling. You wonder if you’re wrong.

Like just last week. When he pressed a hand onto your hip. Chest against your back as you stood at the stove. And he leaned over your shoulder to take a glimpse at the pan. “Smells good, cherie.” He muttered. Voice low and lazy right in your ear. “Not as good as you though.”

And you just laughed it off. Because what else could you do?

-

It’s not like it never happened.

It happened once.

A night that blurred from too much wine. Too much laughter. You both were on the couch. Closer than usual (which says a lot). Cause Charles always sat too close. It’s like the two of you didn’t even know what personal space was sometimes. His thigh pressed to yours. Blankets pooled in your laps.

He was telling a story. Some ridiculous story about training, his hand waving in the air dramatically. Accent thicker. And you were just leaning into him. Laughing harder. Head falling into his shoulder without so much as a single thought.

And then you turned your head at the wrong moment…maybe the right moment.

And his mouth was there.

Soft at first. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if this was really happening. Like he was waiting for you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

So it got hungrier. Deeper. Rougher.  His hand brushing the side of your face in a way that makes your heart want to pump out of your chest.

And you remember just how dizzy it made you. How your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Anchoring you. The groan he let out deep in his throat when you leaned in further to him.

And then, it ended. A muttered excuse. Both of you pulling back like nothing happened. Just some laughter.

And then you continued to laugh it off the next morning. Blaming the wine.

Charles nodded. A little too quick.

But neither of you mentioned it again.

But sometimes when its too quiet or you catch his eyes lingering, you feel it. The weight of his mouth on yours.

-

The new picture frame is crooked on the wall.

Charles balances on the arm of the couch. One socked foot digging into the cushion. The other pressed against the wall as if it will help steady him. And whenever he reaches a bit too high, his shirt rides up. Exposing a strip of tanned skin…right above the waistband of his sweats.

“S’not straight…” he groans. Jaw tight as he fiddles with the frame. Moving it to the left a bit more. He steps down, dipping down to look at it from a new angle. Hair falling in his face until he’s blowing at the few hairs impatiently. “Still not fuckin straight.”

From the kitchen, you cradle a mug in both hands. “It looks good.”

He shoots you a glare. And then he’s back at it. Climbing higher on the couch. Knuckles slightly pale from the pressure of his fingertips against the frame. Shifting it again.

“No…not fine.” He says. Voice flat. Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Maybe…maybe the wall is crooked.”

“Or maybe you are.”

He huffs a laugh. “Funny.” And then he’s hopping down, the weight of his body making a thud. Then he takes a few steps back. His arms folded across his chest as he stares at the frame. Not satisfied. Frowning.

Climbs back onto the couch.

You let him fuss. “So Jill said she’d cover f’me tomorrow…which works out cause he actually wanted to meet me at seven…”

“Mmm.” His hands are flat against the wall now. Biceps flexing as he nudges the frame more.

“I haven’t decided where though…” you continue. Watching him shake a bit on the edge of the couch. “Italian feels too basic for a first date, right?”

“Mmm.” He squints again. Nudges the frame again. Thumb grazing the wood like he can smooth it away.

You sigh. “Are y’even listening to me?”

“Oui.” He mutters. Clearly not. His nose almost brushing against the glass of the frame. Then, he’s frowning. “Maybe lower.”

You roll your eyes. Setting the mug down with a little clink. “Whatever…I said yes…so m’going tomorrow.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Charles’s body jerks like you just pulled a rug out from under him. His hand slips off the wall, socked foot slipping off the arm rest. He flails a bit. Curses with his heavy accent. And then falls to the cushions.

The whole couch shutters. The crooked frame falls even more sideways.

“You’re what?”

His voice is rougher than you’ve expected. Low. Urgent.

He’s half-sitting now. One hand gripping onto the couch like its the only thing keeping him steady.

His eyes are on you now. Unblinking.

You blink. “M’going out…” you say slowly. “On a date. Tomorrow.”

“Italian?” He asks. Voice a bit tight. “Everyone does Italian…boring.”

It lands like a jab. But not at you. More at the thought of him. Whoever he even is.

You laugh, but its more because you’re a bit unsettled.

Charles shrugs his shoulders eventually. Leans back into the couch. But his jaw ticks. “That’s great.” He says. And he tries to say them lightly, but they leave a bitter taste in his mouth. “Really. First dates are fun.”

You tilt your head a little. And his eyes are on the crooked frame now. But his fingers tap restlessly on his leg.

“Why d’you sound like you’d rather attend a funeral?” You joke.

He looks at you then. Lips twitching a bit. “Because, cherie…” he mutters. “Y’have terrible taste.”

-

Charles sleeps like shit.

Tosses and turns so much that it causes his sheets to tangle around his legs tighter with each twist. And the pillow is never comfortable no matter how many times he flips it over. He drags the blanket higher only for it to pull over his feet. Leaving them exposed to the cold air.

He kicks at it. Frustrated. Kicks at it repeatedly, again.

And the cycle starts over.

But it’s not the blankets. Or pillow.

It’s you.

Every time he tries to close his eyes…he sees you. Laughing with your head back. Eyes crinkling in the corners with tears from laughing so hard. Smiling in that soft way when the coffee shop barista remembers your order…or when you scroll on your phone and find something that’s so stupid, funny. But not here. Not with him.

On a date.

The words prick his skin like a fucking needle. Over and over.  Date. Date. Date.

He presses his palms into his eyes, mutter a soft curse. He kicks the sheets down entirely when he feels suffocated. Only to yank them back up when the air gets too cold. The time on his phone crawls past four…Then five.

His brain runs in circles. He pictures you in that dress you wore once…when you claimed it was too much for grocery shopping but it would literally undo him if he saw you wear it for someone else. Pictures you sipping out of your mug…letting someone else get you in the mornings like he does.

It’s stupid. Small. Everything.

When the first glimpse of light peeps through the curtains of his room…he feels hollow. Muscles stiff, eyelids heavy.

The worst part is that it’s not even the first time you’ve mentioned a date. There have been others. Names that mean absolutely nothing to him until they’re leaving your mouth. But he always just acts like its fine.

And when Charles finally pulls himself out of bed in the morning…it literally feels like his body has been hit by a truck. He slips on a hoodie without thinking.

The place already smells like coffee. And you’re sat against the edge of the counter…legs swinging…scrolling on your phone. Hair tied up. Sweater slipping off of one shoulder.

You look up as he crosses the threshold. “Morning.”

“Mm.” He practically grunts. Pulling the cabinet open to reach for a mug. Sets it down on the counter top harder than he should’ve. “Morning.”

You squint your eyes at him. “Y’okay? Y’look a little rough…”

“Merci.” He reaches for the pot, pours it. “Good morning to you too, cherie.”

You laugh. Shake your head a bit. “Did y’even sleep?”

“Barely.” He stirs his coffee. Shrugs his shoulders. “Need to head to Maranello anyway.”

This catches your attention. Brows furrowed a bit. “Already? I feel like y’just got back.”

Charles leans against the counter, facing you. His mug cradled in both hands. Shrugs his shoulders again. But his jaw ticks this time. “Always somethin to do…meetings…sim…work.”

It’s not the words…but the way he says it. Clipped. Quick. Like its something he rehearsed.

Because the truth is…he doesn’t really need to go. Not today. Or even tomorrow. But it’s the only thing he can say without you asking too many questions.

And the last. Thing he wants to do is sit here. In this condo. And hear you talk about another date like it’s nothing.

You set your mug and phone down. “Stay a little longer please. You’ve got time…”

He opens his mouth, ready to protest. But you’re already brushing it off. Slipping off the counter. “You’ll literally end up falling asleep in the car if y’leave now…Might as well wait, yeah?”

Charles stares at you. He should tell you no. That he needs to go. But you just look at him with a small smile, like you don’t even need to second guess if he’ll listen.

And that’s all it takes.

He lets out a soft laugh. Sets his mug down. “Fine. Just a bit longer.”

Like it was ever really an option.

-

Charles doesn’t make it to Maranello.

The day just….happens.

First its groceries. Where he pushes the cart and you weave around the aisles. Holding up two boxes of pasta which has him muttering just pick one, cherie and for you to roll your eyes. Only to throw them both in. He sneaks some candy into the cart when you aren’t looking. And when you notice at checkout, you swat his arm. But he doesn’t take them out.

Then laundry. You dump a basket of clothes onto the couch…which has him groaning in protest. But he held anyways. Folding one of your shirts so badly that you have to take it from him. Laughing so hard that you can barely sit straight.

And eventually, you both have claimed your areas of the couch for some cringy TV show you’ve been watching for the past few weeks together. You stretch your legs out eventually, placing them across his lap without even asking. He pretended to complain…acts like he’s uncomfortable. But when you try to take your legs off of him, his hand is wrapping around your ankle over the blanket. “Stay.”

And six episodes later, you’re still there on the couch.

Until you’re popping up for the first time in hours. The blanket slipping off your body to the floor. “I need to start getting ready.”

Charles stretches. Pretending that the TV is super interesting even though the episode is paused. “For what?”

You’re already halfway towards your bedroom when you half shout, “Drinks! Meeting with that guy Jill set me up with, remember?”

How could he forget?

The date has been circling in his brain since you mentioned it. Charles swallows. Forces a soft hum as he taps the TV remote against the arm rest of the couch. And he hopes you don’t hear how stiff it comes out.

“Don’t go anywhere!”

Charles drops his head back against the couch. Huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. More like a breath of air.

He should leave now. Get in the car. Drive to Maranello like he said he was doing.

But when you call his name again…light. Like you expect him to come running.

He’s already on his feet.

Because of course he is.

-

Charles tells himself not to move too far into the room. Not to let the expression on his face give him away. So he folds his arms tighter across his chest. Leans agains the doorframe like it’ll hold him together.

“Neither,” he says. Voice even. “Stay home.”

The words land sharp.

You laugh. Try to brush it off while tossing a throw pillow from your bed at him. “Funny.”

But theres something in the way his eyes don’t leave yours. Dark. Unblinking. That makes your stomach flip.

You turn away quickly, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. For no reason. You press the first dress against your chest, forcing a smile as you stare in the mirror. “This one makes me look like m’trying too hard, yeah?”

He doesn’t blink. “Looks fine.”

“Fine,” you drop the dress to the end. “That’s the worst word.”

Charles jaw ticks. Swallows. “It’s…good.” Then his voice softens after he swallows again. “Looks good on you, cherie.”

Butterflies swirl in your stomach. Quick enough that it has you pressing your lips together to try not to smile too large. You glance down at the dress, picking it back up and hanging it against your chest. Pretending you don’t feel the compliment in your bones.

He doesn’t mean it like that. He can’t. He’d never…

You grab the second dress option. Lighter. “Better?”

He answers a little too quick. “Better.”

You look at him in the mirror. And he’s looking away, eyes set on some spot near the edge of your bed. Arms crossed. Unreadable.

“Really?”

“Yes.” Clipped. The kind of answer that makes doors slam shut.

You nod. Force a grin.

“Onto the shoes?”

“Mmm.” He hums, shifts his body agains the frame. Cool. Controlled.

But you swear his jaw ticks when you bend to pull a pair out from under your bed.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

-

The bottle of wine is already half-gone. Two glasses balanced on the little table that makes a noise whenever you two laugh a little too hard. And its working its way into your veins. Loosening your tongue.

The loveseat is small. And there’s absolutely no space between you two. His arm rests along the back of the seat. Not exactly touching you…but you can feel the heat of his hand.

Charles’s head is thrown back from laughing so hard. His knee nudging against yours on purpose this time. “That’s the line? Mon dieu, cherie…..even I could do better than that.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah, right.”

He turns his head toward you then. Closer. And his smirk is lazy. But his eyes are so green and sharp. “I could, cherie.”

Your heart skips a beat. But you bite back a grin. “Prove it.”

His eyes flick to your mouth and back. He doesn’t even hesitate.

One second his arm is dangling lazily on the loveseat. And the next its around you. Pulling you closer. Mouth finding yours. Soft. Then rougher when you don’t pull away.

The couch groans under the shift of his weight as he pulls you further into him. Mouth pressing harder to yours. His hand is at your jaw, thumb dragging along your cheek. Tilting your face to angle the kiss deeper. One arm tightened around you that he has practically pulled you into his lap. Knees knocking into his thighs.

You gasp into his mouth when he tugs. He instantly swallows the sound. Takes advantage of the widening of your mouth and slips his tongue against yours. Hot. Demanding.

“Charles…” you breathe, but its lost into the kiss. His lips are reverent against yours. His teeth catching your bottom lip. And it makes you whimper.

The sound nearly kills him on the spot. He slips his fingers higher, trailing the edge of your dress. And your hips tilt towards him before you can even think.

He groans into your mouth. Low. Presses you closer to his chest. And the blanket you were once sharing slips to the floor. Unnoticed. And your skin is on fucking fire. Burning wherever he touches.

Your hands curl harder into his hoodie. Needing him closer. He breaks from the kiss..only to press hot kisses along your jaw. Down your throat. His teeth grazing your skin.

“You’re…” his voice is rough against you. “…so much better than this, cherie. Y’know that, yeah?”

You can barely think. Barely breathe.

His mouth devours yours again. Like he’s fucking starving for it. Like he’s been waiting too long to be able to kiss you again.

And it’s desperate. He presses you down into him. Hard enough that you can feel how hard he is through the fabric of his sweats.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Voice ragged. Hands slipping beneath your dress. Palms hot.

You groan when his mouth trails along your neck again. Your back arching into him as you squirm in his lap.

“You’ve got not idea,” he groans. “…no idea how…how long I’ve wanted this…you.”

His fingers hook into your panties, tugging them aside. And you’re gasping. The cool air brushing agains your skin before his fingers push in. Slow. Deliberate.

And you whimper out when his thumb circles your clit. He kisses you again. Working you with his fingers until you’re grinding in his hand. Desperate. Shameless.

Your head tips back. Let out a broken moan as he pushes another finger into you. Stretching you slowly. Your hips twitch against him. Chasing every single drag of his fingers. Your fingers slip into his hair. Grasping it.

“I can’t…fuck,” his mouth is at your throat. Kissing. Licking. Biting. “I can’t pretend anymore…” his words are muffled. “S’like it’s driving me insane…”

Your heart pounds. His fingers working against you faster. “Charles…”

He looks at you then. Eyes sharp. Green. “Say m’wrong…say that I’m imagining it…that you don’t feel this.” His other hand grips your waist, pushing you harder against him. “Say it…and I’ll stop.”

But your body betrays you. Hips tilt, pressing closer. And then his mouth is crashing back into yours again.

“You’re…..” You breathe. Break the kiss for a second. “Not…you’re not wrong. Told myself I was…fuck…” You lose your train of thought when he curls his fingers just a little more. “Told myself I was imagining it. But I feel it….always felt it.”

And he audibly groans as he feels you clench around his fingers. Your hips rocking against him. Chasing the high.

His tongue slides against yours. And you can’t stop the moans from slipping out your mouth as he works his fingers into you.  “Mon dieu,” he groans. Forehead knocking against yours.

You break the kiss to tilt your head back. His mouth immediately moving to your throat. “That’s it, cherie. Give it to me, please? Yeah?”

And it hits. Sharp. Hard. Like something inside of you snaps. You clutch at him desperately. Your moans muffled by his mouth when he pulls you back into him.

And he works you through it. Fingers deep. Until you’re shaking in his lap.

When your body finally relaxes. Your head in his neck.

“You’re never laughing this off now, cherie.”

-

It was Charles.

Not a dating app. Not Jill setting you up. Him.

The way he leaned against the kitchen counter just a few nights ago. Lips quirked up when he said let me take you out, yeah?

And you tried to make it lighter. Tried not to let your stomach turn over when you said yes.

Dinner turned into wine. Wine turned into the two of you pressed into each other in the back of a taxi. His hand finds your thigh. And before you can so much as think twice, your mouth is on his.

Messy. Rushed. His lips against yours, tongue slipping in. Desperate. He groans into your mouth. Rough and deep. Pulling you closer to him.

The car jolts to a stop and it has your teeth hitting. Both of you gasping and then falling into a laugh in the middle of a kiss. Still not pulling apart. He mutters something in French against your lips.

And then the driver clears his throat. “We’re..uh, here.”

You both freeze. Mouths still pressed to each other. Then you pull back enough to catch his grin. Eyes glinting.

You laugh. Shaking your head. And he laughs too. Before kissing you once more like he can’t even help himself.

The driver coughs again.

You’re still laughing when Charles fumbles for his wallet. Tossing a few bills towards the front without even glancing at him. His other hand grabbing your wrist, tugging you out of the car. Lips finding yours the moment the car door shuts.

You both stumble through the building. Charles’s hand on your back. Fingers sprawled staking claim.

And by the time the front door shuts…you’re gasping into his mouth. And he’s stripping off his coat in one quick motion, tossing it to the floor.

“Fucking hell, cherie…” he groans into your lips. “Wanted this for so long…don’t…don’t even know how the fuck I kept my hands off you.”

His hands are everywhere. Slipping under your dress. Gripping your ass. Squeezing anything until you’re moaning and melting into his mouth.

He presses your back into the wall. Hips grinding into you.

Your head tips back into the wall as he claims your throat. Sucking dark bruises into your skin. Hand slipping higher, panties tugged aside. And before you can speak he’s pushing two fingers inside of you.

“Mon dieu, cherie…you’re fuckin dripping.” He curls them a little more.

A sharp moan breaks as his thumb brushes your clit. “Charles…”

“That’s it,” he cuts you off. Voice low. Filthy. “Say my name again, yeah? Y’gonna come all over my hand again?” He teases.

You chase the high. Hips rocking against his hand.

Your orgasm hits suddenly. Sharp. And you cry out. Nails digging into his skin as you come hard. Body trembling.

He groans out loud. Working you through it. “M’gonna ruin this cunt, aren’t I?”

Your hands are fumbling with the buckle of his belt. Eager to get it off. The leather slips. Clinks.

“Impatient little thing, hm?” He grins. Hands looping with yours to yank the belt loose. Shoving his pants and boxers down far enough to free his cock.

Your breath catches. He’s thick. Hard. And flushed to the tip.

Charles groans as he fists himself once. His forehead presses to yours. “Wanted….wanted to do this properly. In bed. Take my time with you, cherie. Strip you slow…..worship this cunt for hours, yeah? But you….” He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you push your hips toward him. “You’re begging now…can’t fuckin wait, hm?”

You pull him closer. “Don’t care…” your voice is needy. “Want you now..here. Please.” You practically beg.

He laughs in disbelief. “Mon dieu, you’re….you’re going to kill me.” He raises one leg, slipping his hand on the underside of your knee to hold it up. His grin is brutal.

And the angle of your hips changes, letting him drag his cock once….twice…through your folds before lining himself up and pushing in.

The world quite literally fades away as he buries himself in you. The skin on skin. The way his name tastes on your tongue when you moan it out. And he’s so deep its like he’s trying to brand himself inside of you.

“F-fuckkkk,” he groans. “Mon ange…y’don’ know what you’re doing to me…” his voice cracks. His thrusts are rough and relentless. Like he’s chasing something he’s needed for years.

You can barely recollect moving. The floor is cold against your knees. Wall firm at his back. But all you can feel is him. Stretching you. Filling you.

And his hands fumble at your hips as you straddle him. His head against the wall as you sink down on him.

You press the palm of your hands flat agains this chest, using it for some kind of leverage as you roll your hips into him. His eyes are pinched shut. “F-fuck…oui, like that….fuck fuck, keep going…s’il te plaît…” His fingers dig into the skin of your ass, pushing you down harder into him. Faster.

And every bounce has you gasping. Thighs shaking. But when he opens his eyes, glinting with something borderline worshipful…keeps you going. And his lips are pressing beneath your jaw. Licking. Sucking.

You grind down harder.

“Look at you,” he breathes out. Eyes fucking wild. “Takin me so well, cherie….made f’me, yeah?” His voice cracks. And it has your skin burning.

You whimper. Pressing your nails into his shoulder. “Charles…”

“Oui, chérie….say it again.” He groans as you squeeze around him. “Can feel y’milking me…want me to fill you, hm?? Want to be so full y’can’t think of anyone else?”

And the words have you riding him harder. Chasing that heat building in your belly fast. His gaze never leaves you.

“Gonna make me….f-fuck fuck fuck,…gonna make me come…” His hips start pushing up into you. Trying to meet you in the middle.

“Yes…fuck…” You clench. “Want y’to come inside me…”

And that’s all it takes.

His hand is slipping to the back of your neck. Wrapping around it firmly…squeezing…pulling your lips to his. Mouth crashing into yours as he swallows your cries.

And your orgasm rips through you.

And then he’s spilling into you. Muttering nothing but curses as he holds you down on his cock. And his grip is fucking bruising.

It takes a few more strokes until you’re just limp against his body. Him pressed into the wall, seated on the floor. He presses soft kisses to the skin of your neck…your collarbone…your lips.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, cherie/“

You manage to let out a small laugh. Limp. “At least its a good way to go, right?”

He laughs. “M’so fucked.”

You blink. Sit up to look him in the eyes. And he looks so soft. So happy.

“Like emotionally or like…physically?”

He gives you a lopsided grin. “Both…definitely both.” His fingers trail your face.

The corners of your lips twitch.

“No saving me?”

“Not tonight…” Your hands curl around his. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He closes his eyes. Head rested agains the wall. “Good. I’ll still need that coffee tomorrow.”

You drop your head into his shoulder. Laughing. And he presses a kiss to your head. And for a while you just sit there. Silent. Comfortable.

Together.

[leclerc-hs]

Y'ALL I THOUGHT THE STORY WAS SCHEDULED TO POST BUT IT GOT ALL MESSED UP. FORGIVE ME AS I DID NOT GO ON TUMBLR YESTERDAY CAUSE I HAD A CHRISTMAS PARTY.

POSTING IT NOW.

[leclerc-hs]

I WOULD GIVE YOU THE SLOPPIEST FUCKING HEAD OF YOUR LIFE IF YOU WROTE MORE OF MAX🙏🙏🙏

[leclerc-hs]

the fact that almost a year ago i placed a bet on max winning the wdc when his odds were +1200 & now he’s in 3rd (tied with oscar) is frying me.

NEVER count that man’s out

[leclerc-hs]

in 2nd place now btw LMAOOO