Summary... Two exes on the same team. They broke up before the season started. Now they’re forced to work together through 23 races, 5 continents, and one very awkward off-season.
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The envelope was still in her bag.
She hadn’t even taken it out. Hadn’t unzipped the pocket or peeled the seal or pulled the contract out to wave it around with that giddy smile she’d practiced in the mirror at least three times before boarding the flight. It was still there, nestled between her passport and a pack of gum, the weight of it heavier than anything she’d ever carried.
Because now it didn’t matter.
Not really. Not anymore.
Charles stood across from her in the tiny Monaco flat they used to call “theirs,” eyes hollow and voice eerily steady as he said the words she hadn’t seen coming.
“I don’t think we’re meant to do this anymore.”
It was quiet. No yelling, no accusations. Just that awful, painful calm, the kind that made her want to scream.
Y/N blinked, confused. “What… what do you mean?”
“I mean…” Charles sighed and looked down at the floor like it held answers. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. About us. About how we always seem to miss each other. Maybe it’s the timing. Or maybe it’s just who we are.”
She took a step forward. “Charles, we’ve been doing long distance for two years. Through back-to-back seasons. Through two team changes. And now—” Her throat caught. “Now that we’re finally going to be in the same place—”
He shook his head before she could finish. “That’s the thing. I don’t think being in the same place will fix what we couldn’t make work apart.”
She stared at him, stunned silent.
She didn’t tell him.
Couldn’t.
Not when he looked like that—like he’d already left.
So instead of pulling out the envelope, instead of saying “I just signed with Ferrari,” instead of telling him that next season they’d be side-by-side in red, she just stood there and let him walk out the door.
Let him walk away from her. From them.
--------
Charles was halfway through his morning espresso when he saw it.
It was a headline. On his phone. In all caps. With her name.
“Y/N Y/L/N SIGNS WITH FERRARI FOR 2025 SEASON”
He blinked, then blinked again.
No. No, that had to be wrong. A leak. A rumor. A fake.
He clicked the article.
There was a picture, her in the Ferrari garage, shaking hands with Fred Vasseur, the faintest of smiles on her face. She looked radiant. Calm. Like she belonged there.
And suddenly, it all clicked.
The way she hesitated that night. The way her eyes shimmered like they wanted to say something. The bag she clutched a little too tightly. The silence that fell between “I don’t think we’re meant to do this” and the door closing behind him.
She hadn’t told him.
And now, she didn’t have to.
The entire world already knew.
-----------
Charles hadn’t meant to break her.
He’d only wanted to protect himself.
But now, staring at her face on his screen, Ferrari logo above her name, the team’s official welcome post already past a million likes—he felt like the biggest fucking idiot in the world.
She had signed with Ferrari.
She had signed to be his teammate.
And she hadn’t told him.
His espresso sat forgotten, going cold. He rubbed his jaw, then his temple, then grabbed his phone and pressed call.
It rang twice before his mother answered.
“Charles?” her voice was sleepy but warm. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” he said, blunt. Then ran a hand down his face. “I mean… yes. I’m fine. It’s not urgent. I just…” He sighed. “I need to talk to someone who isn’t paid to agree with me.”
She chuckled lightly, waking up fast now. “That bad?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“She signed with Ferrari,” he said finally.
There was a pause. “Y/N?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t know?”
“No,” he murmured. “I broke up with her before she told me. She was going to. I think. I—” he swallowed. “I think she was about to when I… when I ended it.”
“Oh, Charles.”
His chest clenched. “What the hell do I do now?”
His mother was quiet for a long moment before she said gently, “You do your job. You show up. You treat her with respect. And if there’s something still left between you… you don’t run from it this time.”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall. “I don’t even know if she’ll talk to me.”
“Then listen,” she said. “That’s where you start.”
---------
The conference room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.
Cameras. PR people. Team principals. Engineers. Two seats up front with name placards.
Leclerc
Y/L/N
Charles arrived early. Hair perfect, suit sharp, pretending to scroll through briefing notes while every part of him tensed like a wire ready to snap.
She walked in exactly five minutes late.
Poised. Confident. Dressed in Ferrari red like she was born in it.
And she didn’t look at him.
Not once.
Not even when she sat down right beside him.
The murmurs in the room shifted. Charles caught the whispers.
“Weren’t they—?”
“Thought they were dating…”
“Guess not anymore.”
“Yikes.”
He kept his face unreadable. Professional. Cold, even.
But inside, it was chaos.
They hadn’t spoken in over two months. Not a single text. Not a single call.
And now she was here. Acting like they were strangers.
The press conference began. Someone asked about their dynamic. About working together.
Y/N smiled, polished and polite. “Charles and I have known each other for years. I’m excited to be working alongside him.”
He forced a nod. “The car comes first. We’re both here to win.”
After, when the cameras clicked off, she turned to him finally.
Not warm. Not cold. Just… distant.
“Hi,” she said. “Guess we’re doing this.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then offered a weak, “Hi.”
She nodded once and turned away again, already talking to an engineer.
Just like that.
Like nothing had ever happened between them.
-------
Barcelona. Bahrain. Silverstone. The preseason carousel began.
And with every media day, every team photo, every launch party—they had to stand next to each other. Smile for the cameras. Sit through interviews that always ended with the same question:
“What’s it like being exes and teammates?”
She always deflected gracefully.
Charles wanted to punch something every time.
But the worst was the paddock.
When the paddock learned they weren’t together anymore, it spread like wildfire.
Whispers. Pit wall gossip. Old friends turning sympathetic.
And Y/N… she just kept going. Kept performing. Kept posting her sim sessions and race suit fittings like nothing had ever shattered her.
The worst part?
She looked happy.
Or at least better at pretending than he was.
---------
To be continued...
Please let me guys know if you would like a part 2 and what would you guys like to see :)
Summary... Two exes on the same team. They broke up before the season started. Now they’re forced to work together through 23 races, 5 continents, and one very awkward off-season.
A/N: I'm sorry it took so long to post part 2. I just got really into it and I wanted to keep writing on here but I reached my Tumblr limit, so I might have to post a part 3 soon lol... but here you guys goooo.. I hope you guys enjoy it and part 3 will be post soon.
Part 1 - Read before you read this part :)
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Ferrari’s media team knew a goldmine when they saw one.
Two top-tier drivers. Former lovers. Now teammates.
It wasn’t just a headline—it was content. It was clicks. It was drama wrapped in designer race suits.
“From lovers to rivals: Leclerc and Y/L/N gear up for 2025.”
“Scuderia's Spiciest Season Yet: Can Ferrari's new duo keep it professional?”
“Breakups and Burnouts: How tension off track might fuel fire on it.”
Charles wanted to strangle someone every time he saw one of those headlines. But the PR team only leaned in harder.
The official campaign slogan?
"Two hearts. One team. One goal."
It made him sick.
They paired them for every promo shoot. Every sponsorship feature. Every “day in the life” segment.
You would smile like it meant nothing. Laugh politely when the hosts made jabs about “familiarity.” Maintain a neutral distance.
Meanwhile, Charles was unraveling.
They wouldn’t even let you use separate PR handlers.
“Unity,” they said.
“Cohesion,” they insisted.
“It sells,” they didn’t say—but didn’t have to.
One day, they were forced to film a bit where they stood back-to-back, arms crossed, smirking.
Charles hadn’t realized how intimate standing back-to-back could feel until you shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his just barely, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.
You didn’t react. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it hadn’t meant everything once.
------
Australia
Melbourne was warm. Too warm for a black polo, but the Ferrari dress code didn’t care about comfort.
Charles adjusted his collar and checked his reflection in the mirror one last time before stepping into the media room.
Youwas already there.
Of course you was.
Hair pulled back. Aviators on. Red polo perfectly tucked. Smiling as you leaned over a table to sign posters for the fan zone.
He hated how effortlessly cool you looked. How unbothered.
The moment the press spotted you together, the room buzzed.
Click click click.
Leclerc. Y/L/N. Ferrari’s power pairing.
Exes on the grid.
Tension or teamwork?
Charles forced a smile as you were called forward.
“Let’s get a joint shot for the socials,” the team rep chirped.
You stood next to him, closer than you’d been since that night in Monaco.
“Hi,” you said under your breath, not looking at him.
He swallowed. “Hi.”
Click.
Click.
“Closer,” someone said.
Charles didn’t move. You didn’t either.
More clicks.
“Tell us,” a reporter grinned, “what’s it like sharing a garage with someone you used to share—”
You cut in, voice honey-sweet but razor sharp. “We share a team, not a past. And the only thing we’re focused on is winning.”
That shut them up. But the damage was done.
The soundbite was already being clipped, posted, quoted.
Back in the Ferrari hospitality tent, Charles found you alone by the espresso machine.
“I hate this,” he said quietly.
You turned, eyebrow raised. “The coffee?”
“This circus,” he gestured to the media tent. “The narrative. Us being—this.”
You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have walked away.”
It wasn’t cruel. Just honest.
And it landed like a gut punch.
Before he could say anything else, the comms manager appeared.
“You two are up next for the Sky Sports segment. Smile, yeah?”
You walked off without another word.
Charles followed, knowing that for the next ten minutes, they’d have to pretend it didn’t still hurt.
------
The garage smelled like burnt rubber and nerves.
It always did on Saturdays, but this time it wasn’t just the usual pre-quali tension. It was you, three meters away, head bowed as a race engineer adjusted your headset, lips moving into the comms.
Charles wasn’t looking.
Except he was.
He always was.
“P2 and P3 look tight this weekend,” Fred Vasseur said, walking in with his clipboard. “If we want front row, we’ll need clean laps and clean heads.”
He looked directly at both of you when he said it.
Neither responded.
-
Q1 went smooth. Q2 went tense. Q3… was war.
Charles radioed in first. “Tell her not to back me into dirty air.”
His engineer’s voice crackled. “You’re two seconds behind her. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, and last week I was ‘fine’ and I hit traffic.”
“We’ll relay it.”
A beat later: “She says tell him to stay out of her mirrors and focus on his own damn lap.”
Charles snorted inside his helmet. “Copy.”
-
Back in the garage post-Q3, the timing screens lit up.
P2 – Y/L/N
P3 – Leclerc
Silence.
A few claps. A few murmured congratulations.
You walked past him to grab a towel. “Nice lap.”
He grabbed his own. “Yeah. Yours was better.”
“Guess I still know how to deliver under pressure.”
There it was.
He turned, a bit too fast. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
You looked at him finally. Really looked.
Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat. Eyes fierce.
“You tell me, Charles.”
-
They finished P4 and P5.
Missed the podium by a few seconds.
Not a bad result, but not what Ferrari needed. Not what they needed.
The debrief room was cold, sterile. Screens flickered with sector data, lap comparisons, tire degradation stats.
Fred stood at the front, running through post-race notes.
Charles sat across from you.
You hadn’t spoken since the grid.
“Turn 11. Charles, you lost time on Lap 39. What happened?”
He shrugged, eyes flicking to you. “Dirty air. Wasn’t willing to risk taking her out.”
Your jaw tightened. “I gave space.”
He laughed under his breath. “Sure.”
“Okay,” Fred cut in quickly. “Let’s keep it constructive.”
Silence again.
Until you spoke, clear and direct. “We need a cleaner release strategy. And if he wants space, tell him to earn it next time.”
Charles’s head snapped up.
Fred sighed.
“Got it,” the strategist muttered. “We’ll review.”
The debrief ended five minutes later.
Charles stood.
So did you.
Your eyes met again, tired, sharp, something dangerously close to familiar.
But you walked out first.
Again.
-----
Bahrain
The room was packed.
Media day in Bahrain always felt intense, but this year? It was a feeding frenzy.
Two Ferrari drivers. One very public breakup.
The FIA insisted you sit together. "Transparency," they said.
Charles on the far left. You beside him. Lando, Carlos, and Oscar completed the row—but all eyes were on red.
“So,” a reporter grinned. “Ferrari’s newest pairing—how’s the vibe in the garage? Awkward breakfasts? Shared playlists?”
Lando laughed into his mic. “They sit further apart than the hard and soft compounds.”
You smiled politely. “It’s been professional. We’re both here to drive, not to relive 2023.”
Charles nodded. “We communicate what we need to. That’s what matters.”
A second reporter jumped in. “Y/N, any lingering tension after qualifying in front of Charles last week?”
Your eyes flicked to Charles, then back to the mic. “Only the competitive kind.”
Someone in the back raised a hand. “What’s your biggest strength as a driver?”
“Focus,” yousaid quickly.
“Control,” Charles added.
Lando snorted. “That didn’t age well.”
Y/N cracked a small smile. “Didn’t know you were a relationship therapist now, Norris.”
Charles almost laughed.
Almost.
-
After the panel, they filed out in silence.
Until Charles caught up to you near the paddock entrance.
“You handled that well,” he said quietly.
You kept walking. “Didn’t stab anyone with a mic, so I’d say yes.”
He glanced at you. “Look, I know we’re not… whatever we were. But if you ever want to talk—really talk—”
“I’ll let you know,” you replied, then turned into the Ferrari hospitality tent.
But your steps slowed just slightly, like part of you wanted to look back.
Charles didn’t follow.
Not yet.
-----
The floodlights buzzed overhead, casting the Bahrain circuit in an artificial glow. The air was dry. The engines roared.
Ferrari lined up P3 and P4. Charles ahead. Y/N behind.
“Smooth launch,” the engineer said. “Respect the plan. Strategy window opens Lap 11.”
You both confirm over radio.
And for the first ten laps, it was calm.
Until the tire degradation started to hit.
“Box, box,” said your race engineer.
You dove into the pits first, fresh mediums. Charles stayed out, covering the undercut.
Lap 12, he came in. Rejoining nose to tail.
Lap 16. The chaos began.
You had better grip. Charles was still defending.
The paddock held its breath as you launched down the inside into Turn 4.
Too late. Too hot. Too close.
“Whoa! Y/N just dove on Leclerc—”
“Contact?”
“Nearly!”
Charles had seconds to react, jerking the wheel just enough to give you space without going off.
You held the line. You didn’t touch. Barely.
Over team radio, silence.
Then Charles’s voice: “Tell her next time, commit or back off. No half-measures.”
One lap later: “Tell him thank you for not wrecking us both.”
Ferrari pit wall didn’t breathe again until Lap 57.
Crossing the line in P4 and Charles P5.
Clean. Barely.
But something had changed.
-----
The debrief room was tense.
Fred stood at the front with his tablet. “Let’s talk about Lap 16.”
Neither spoke.
Fred looked at you. “Too aggressive.”
He looked at Charles. “Too stubborn.”
“I gave her space,” Charles said flatly.
“Barely,” you muttered.
Fred exhaled. “Look, I don’t care what happened last year. Right now, we need points. Not pride.”
More silence.
Until Charles glanced at you. “That move… it was good.”
You blinked. “You sure? I thought I nearly ruined your race.”
“You didn’t. I adjusted. Trusted you would finish it clean.”
Tilting your head. “You trusted me?”
He nodded once. “Didn’t want to. But I did.”
Something soft flickering inside.
Fred cleared his throat. “Great. Now bottle that energy for Saudi.”
-----
Saudi Arabia
Jeddah at night was pure adrenaline.
Fast. Narrow. Dangerous.
You had qualified P5, Charles in P3. Both knew this track didn’t forgive mistakes. But neither expected what happened on Lap 22.
Yellow flag. Then red.
Oscar Piastri had gone into the wall. Marshals flooded the track. Everyone filed into the pit lane.
And just like that, the race paused mid-chaos.
Yanking your helmet off, pacing near your car.
Charles was sitting on the halo of his own, elbows on knees, gloves still on.
Fred walked over with the strategy lead. “We’re flipping it. You two are going hard tire to the end. But we need to control the restart.”
With a raised a brow. “As in… team orders?”
“No,” Fred said. “As in teamwork. You box first. Charles follows. You go aggressive. Charles defends.”
Charles finally spoke. “That’s risky.”
Fred stared at you both. “Only if you don’t trust each other.”
A pause.
Charles looked at you. “You okay with that?”
You held his gaze. “Can you handle being rear guard?”
His mouth twitched. “Can you handle being first out?”
You smirked. “Try and keep up, Leclerc.”
They fist-bumped. Small. Wordless.
But it meant something.
-
Race restart. Lap 25.
You launched. Clean getaway. Charles slotted in behind you perfectly.
The next 15 laps were chaos.
McLarens attacking. Mercedes on alternate strategy. George on softs, trying to divebomb.
But Charles covered you like a shield. Blocked every move. Clean. Aggressive. Masterful.
And when you crossed the line P2, Charles P3—it felt like more than just a podium.
It felt like healing.
----
The media pen was buzzing.
Carlos was talking to Sky Sports. Lando had already thrown his cap into the crowd.
You slipped into the corner of the garage, helmet still in hand, flushed cheeks cooling off under the LED lights.
Charles found you there. Silent, soft-footed, holding two water bottles.
He passed you one without a word.
You took it. “Thanks.”
He sat beside you, not too close. Just enough.
“You raced beautifully,” he said after a beat.
You looked at him. “You covered for me. Better than anyone else could’ve.”
He smiled. “We were a good team today.”
You tilted your head. “Today?”
He met your eyes, quiet. “Let’s start with today.”
For once, you didn’t push.
Just nodded, capped your water, and whispered, “Okay.”
----
Japan
Charles hated qualifying at Suzuka.
He used to love it. The rhythm. The corners. The history.
But today, nothing clicked.
His rear snapped loose in Sector 1 twice. Oversteer in the Esses. Lock-up into Degner 2.
Q2: Eliminated. P11.
He didn’t even wait for the interview. Just pulled off his helmet and stormed into the back of the Ferrari garage.
You managed P3. But you didn’t celebrate.
You saw him disappear, saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he didn’t even speak to his engineer.
So you followed.
You found him in the corner, still suited, gloves off, jaw clenched.
-
“You don’t have to say anything,” he mutters without looking up.
But you step closer anyway.
“I’m not here to lecture you,” you say gently. “I’m here because I’ve had days like this too.”
His head turns, but his eyes don’t meet yours yet. “It was the car. It was me. It was—everything.”
You sit beside him, close but not touching.
“Look at me,” you say.
He does. Slowly. Hesitantly.
“You’re not done. This was just Q2. You still have tomorrow. We’re a team, remember?”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then quietly: “We are now.”
You nod once. “Then let me help. Whatever you need.”
He exhales, like something in him unclenches for the first time all day.
“I’ll need a miracle start.”
You smirk. “Good thing I’m not using mine.”
He laughs, just barely.
But it’s real.
--
Charles made up four places in the first ten laps.
Another two by Lap 38.
Finished P5. You held onto P4 despite tire drop-off and a late push from Hamilton.
Not their strongest weekend. But they walked away with points.
In the post-race cooldown room, you nudged his elbow lightly.
“You still think you needed a miracle?”
Charles gave a tired grin. “Might’ve had one.”
You raised an eyebrow. “From who?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t have to.
------
It started as a joke.
Some Sky Sports producer thought it would be hilarious: "Charles and Y/N, do a mock argument for a TikTok—act like you're squabbling over setup or who's the favorite child at Ferrari.”
You both agreed. Begrudgingly.
They set up two chairs. One mic. A ridiculous prompt: “Pretend you’re in a team meeting and the other person won’t stop interrupting.”
The cameras rolled.
-
You fold your arms and cock your head at him. “If you’d actually listen to the data for once—”
He cuts you off. “If you didn’t divebomb every corner like it owes you money—”
“Oh please,” you laugh, playing it up. “Just admit you hate being second best.”
“Only to Verstappen,” he fires back smoothly.
The crew laughs.
You don’t.
Not really.
You lean in slightly, voice lower now. “That supposed to be a dig?”
He doesn’t break character—but something shifts in his eyes.
“You tell me,” he says. Still smiling. But not really.
You glance at the producer. “You got what you needed?”
“Yeah, that was gold.”
You stand. Walk off.
He follows, slower.
Outside the garage, just far enough from the cameras, you spin on your heel.
“What the hell was that?”
He shrugs. “It was a joke.”
“No, that was you throwing a jab while we’re still smiling for the world.”
He frowns, crosses his arms. “You said play it up.”
“I didn’t say twist the knife.”
Silence.
You hate this part. The stillness after anger. The too-honest parts neither of you mean to say.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”
You don’t talk the rest of the night.
But the next morning, there’s coffee on your table with your name scribbled on the cup.
And one word underneath it.
“Sorry.”
-
The race was messy.
Two safety cars. A virtual. DRS trains for half the grid. But somehow, you both came out of it ahead.
P3 for him. P4 for you.
Twenty-seven points for Ferrari.
In the hospitality tent after media rounds, you find him standing at the espresso bar, towel around his neck, half-buttoned race suit still clinging to his waist.
He turns when he hears your footsteps.
“You always drink coffee after a race?” you ask, grabbing a water.
He grins. “It’s tradition.”
“You qualified tenth and still made the podium. That deserves something stronger.”
He lifts his cup. “Double shot.”
You roll your eyes but smile. “WDC standings?”
He shrugs. “I’m third. You’re fourth. Two points between us.”
You raise your brows. “Still can’t believe I let you overcut me.”
“Let?” he repeats.
“I was being generous.”
He smirks. “Call it generosity when I’m leading after Austria.”
“You wish.”
Lando walks by and hears the tail end.
“Oh my God,” he mutters, dramatic. “Just snog already. The tension is exhausting.”
Carlos snorts behind him. “They’ve been like this for months.”
You and Charles glance at each other. Then look away.
You sip your water. He drinks his espresso.
Neither of you says what you're thinking.
But it's loud in the silence.
----
Miami
Miami was madness.
Neon everything. Celebs everywhere. Race suits clinging in the humidity. Cameras flashing like it was the Met Gala instead of a Grand Prix.
You’d qualified P4, Charles in P6 after a rough Q3. Grid penalties had bumped you both up a row.
Ferrari was flying under the radar. No drama this week. Just quiet consistency.
But the paddock? Loud.
“You know there’s a TikTok calling us ‘the parents of the grid’?” you ask, sliding into your seat for the drivers’ parade.
Charles adjusts his cap, smirks. “We’re barely speaking some weeks.”
You grin. “Exactly. Divorced parents.”
“Who share custody of Fred.”
You laugh, full and real, and it makes him pause for half a second. Just watch you.
“I like when you do that,” he says quietly.
You blink. “What?”
“Laugh like you don’t hate me.”
“I never hated you.”
He nods slowly. “I know. I just made it easy to pretend.”
The truck jolts forward. You look ahead again.
But your smile doesn’t fade.
-
The race was brutal.
Hot track temps. Double-stacked pit stop. A late safety car.
Y/N crossed the line P2 after a perfectly timed overtake on Checo.
Charles held off George for P4. Nearly lost it on the final lap.
Back in the paddock, the post-race buzz is everywhere.
Champagne. Sunglasses. Music thumping somewhere from a sponsor tent.
Carlos walks over holding two beers. Tosses one to you, hands the other to Charles.
“To the newlyweds,” he jokes. “Still pretending you don’t like each other. Cute.”
You clink bottles with Charles without even thinking. “We’re just co-parenting Ferrari, remember?”
Charles grins. “The healthiest toxic duo on the grid.”
Lando, passing by, yells, “Divorced but still sleeping together vibes!”
You almost choke on your beer.
Charles? Just smirks and takes a sip.
----
They barely talked in Imola.
Just strategy meetings and quiet nods between corners. No drama. No fireworks. Just a solid P3 for Charles, P5 for Y/N. Business as usual.
But Monaco?
Monaco was different.
The tension in the air was tighter. The roads narrower. The stakes—personal.
It wasn’t just another race for Charles.
It was his race.
His home.
His curse.
Everyone knew it.
-
Race Weekend – Saturday Quali
You watched from the monitors in the Ferrari garage, suited up but still, hands clenched at your sides.
Charles had gone purple in Sector 1.
“Come on,” you murmured under your breath. “Come on, Charles…”
The team radio crackled as he crossed the line.
P1.
Pole position.
He’d done it.
You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
When he came back into the garage, helmet off, jaw tight but eyes bright, you were one of the first to meet him.
“You did it,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting before you can stop it. “Finally.”
He grins—really grins—and for once, doesn’t guard it.
“I did.”
You nod. “Go win the damn thing.”
He looks at you then—really looks—and says quietly, “I’ll try. But either way, thanks.”
You shrug, but your heart stumbles.
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s still Monaco.”
--
Sunday – Race Day
He leads from lights to flag.
No technical failure. No strategy blunder. No crash.
Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix.
The grandstands explode. The team jumps the pit wall. Red flags wave in the sea of blue.
He pulls into parc fermé and slams both fists on the halo of the car.
He’s yelling something, words swallowed by noise, but it’s pure release.
You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, tears stinging behind your visor.
-
Later, when he comes back to the garage, hair damp from champagne, cheeks still red from adrenaline, he finds you waiting with a towel in your hand.
“I knew this one meant everything to you,” you say, holding out the towel.
He takes it, breathless. “You cried?”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You definitely cried.”
You glance away. “It’s allergies.”
“Bullshit,” he says, laughing. Then quieter: “Thank you. Again.”
You tilt your head. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did,” he says. “You believed in me.”
You don’t answer that. You don’t have to.
Because it’s written all over your face.
-
Later That Night – Ferrari Hospitality
The party is in full swing. Champagne, laughter, blurry sponsor reps trying to dance.
You sit off to the side with your engineer, nerves humming low in your gut.
“You ready for Spain?” he asks.
You force a smile. “Sure. First home GP with Ferrari? No pressure.”
“Cameras will love it. Fans too.”
“Yeah. Just hope I don’t crash it into Turn 5 and cry on national TV.”
He laughs, but you don’t.
That’s when Charles walks by. Slows down when he catches the look on your face.
He waits until your engineer steps away, then slides into the seat beside you.
“You nervous?” he asks.
You nod. “Terrified.”
He sips from his drink. “Good. That means you care.”
You let out a breath. “This is the first time I’m going back to Barcelona and not just racing, but representing Ferrari. It’s not just about me anymore.”
He leans back. “You know how many times I’ve tried to win Monaco? How many times I choked on it?”
You nod slowly.
“This year, I stopped racing it for everyone else. I drove it for myself.”
You look at him.
“You should do the same,” he says. “You don’t owe anyone perfection. Just honesty.”
You blink. “What if I mess it up anyway?”
He shrugs. “Then you mess it up. But it’s yours to mess up. You don’t have to earn your seat. You already did.”
You smile. Really smile this time.
“Was that… support?” you tease.
He grins. “Don’t get used to it.”
You clink your plastic cup against his glass bottle.
“To not crashing.”
“To not crashing.”
-----
Barcelona
Barcelona was hot.
Not just the weather, but the noise, the chaos, the sheer pressure of it. The home crowd roared every time Y/N’s face flashed on a screen. Every time she passed pit lane. Every time she stepped into frame beside a red car with her name printed on it.
It was her first Spanish Grand Prix as a Ferrari driver.
And everyone expected magic.
Quali – Saturday
P1: Y/N
P2: Charles
P3: Lando
You’d nailed it. Sector after sector, perfect lines, clean exit out of Turn 10, a final push in Sector 3 that put you on provisional pole.
Then the radio crackled:
“P1, Y/N. That’s P1. You’re on pole.”
The team cheered.
Charles clapped from parc fermé. Genuinely. Unreservedly.
“You good?” he asks later, bumping your shoulder lightly in the garage.
You shake your head. “No. I’m gonna puke.”
He laughs. “That’s how you know you’re about to win.”
You glance sideways. “So you’re rooting for me?”
He leans closer, voice low and calm. “I’ve always rooted for you.”
You freeze just a second too long. But he doesn’t push.
Just walks away, leaving you with your heart in your throat and butterflies in your stomach.
Sunday – Race Day
The stands were a blur of red and yellow. Spanish flags waved alongside Ferrari ones. Your name echoed down every straight.
Charles held P2 the entire race. Defended like hell when Checo threatened. Managed tires. Covered DRS zones.
But the focus was on you.
Lap after lap, you pulled ahead. Clean. Precise. Brilliant.
And when you crossed the finish line...
P1. Home race. Home win.
The crowd erupted.
You screamed into your radio. Your engineer cried. The Ferrari garage lost its mind.
And somewhere just behind you, Charles smiled the way only someone truly proud could.
-
The room is ice cold.
But your skin is still burning.
You’ve barely sat down when the water bottle is shoved into your hand and the towel lands in your lap.
Charles is the one who passed them to you. He’s standing across the room now, sipping his own water like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just defend for half the race so you could run free.
“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble, still breathless.
He leans against the wall. “I’m pretty sure the Spanish anthem gave me goosebumps.”
You laugh softly. “My parents were in the grandstand.”
“I saw them on the big screen,” he says. “Your mum looked like she was crying.”
“She probably was,” you reply, squeezing the towel. “She always said if I won in Barcelona, she’d throw a shoe at someone out of joy.”
He chuckles. “Tell her to aim for Zak Brown next time.”
You snort. Then pause. Then say, quieter now, real.
“Thanks. For racing clean. For not pushing too hard.”
His gaze softens.
“You earned it,” he says. “I just stayed out of your way.”
You look at him, and for once it doesn’t hurt.
It just feels right.
Like you’re finally starting again.
Not as what you were, but something new. Something steadier.
The door opens. A staff member calls you both out to the podium room.
He offers you a hand to stand.
You take it without hesitation.
-
In parc fermé, after the cooldown room, after the media, you found each other again.
“I didn’t puke,” you tell him, dazed, half-laughing.
He steps forward, curls messy under his cap, cheeks still pink from the sun and emotion.
“You won.”
“I won.”
His arms open without a word. And you fall into them.
For a second, the noise fades. The cameras disappear. It’s just him. Just you.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, so quiet no one else could hear it.
You squeeze him tighter. “Thank you.”
Then you pull away, wipe your eyes, and grin. “Next up: Austria. You better keep up.”
He smirks. “I’ll try. La Reine rouge.” (The red queen)
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs, still smiling. “You’ll get it translated later.”
-----
Austria
Austria was supposed to be serious.
Sprint weekend. Short, brutal track. No room for error.
But somewhere between the mountain air, the pasta night in the Ferrari motorhome, and Charles finally wearing that stupid team polo with one too many buttons undone…
Things started to feel fun again.
-
Driver Dinner – Friday Night
It’s the kind of night that doesn’t feel like work.
The sun’s dipping behind the mountains. The restaurants terrace is strung with soft lights and red napkins folded into fancy shapes none of you can pronounce. Someone from the kitchen is overcooking garlic bread. Carlos is already on his second glass of wine. And you?
You’re trying to act normal.
Trying really hard not to notice how Charles looks across the table with his sleeves pushed up and that laugh that used to be yours echoing across the space like it never stopped.
“So,” Carlos says, swirling his glass like he’s in a telenovela. “Be honest. Which one of you is better at keeping secrets?”
You blink. “Why?”
He gestures between you and Charles with a dramatic flair. “Because there is clearly something going on here, and I refuse to be the last to know.”
You raise a brow. “Carlos.”
He leans forward. “Y/N.”
Across the table, Charles is fighting a smile. “Maybe we just communicate better now.”
Lando chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, like when you told her over radio today to stay off your rear wing?”
You toss a piece of bread at him.
“I was racing,” you say. “It’s called banter. Learn it.”
Carlos winks. “Banter is foreplay.”
You nearly snort water through your nose.
Charles? Doesn’t deny it.
He just shrugs, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been all season.
“And besides,” he adds casually, “If we were secretly back together, you’d think we’d be dumb enough to flirt in front of you lot?”
Silence.
Then Giuliano: “Honestly, yes.”
The entire table erupts.
You laugh so hard you actually slap Charles’s shoulder.
He looks at you with that damn twinkle in his eye.
And for a second.
Just a second,
It feels like it used to. Like before Monaco. Before the silence. Before the pretending.
You’re quiet again by dessert.
Carlos is now deep in a debate with an engineer about which gelato flavor is elite. The others are trading sim rig horror stories.
You sip your drink and feel someone watching you.
When you glance up, Charles is already looking away.
But you caught it.
And that smile you’ve been holding back?
It finally escapes.
-
Sprint – Saturday
Short, sweet, chaotic. Charles finishes P3, you take P5 after getting squeezed wide by Oscar.
But it’s Sunday that really sets the paddock buzzing.
-
Race Day – Sunday
Lap 18. Team radio.
Engineer: “Charles, pace is good. Y/N behind on same strategy.”
Charles: “Tell her to stay off my rear wing. It’s not a date.”
PR rep facepalms. Fred mutters something about needing holy water.
Post-race: P2 (Charles), P4 (Y/N).
Lando tweets: “Y/N and Charles flirting over radio like it’s Love Island.”
Carlos reposts with: “Soft launch confirmed? I need mom and dad back together..."
-
Later That Night – Back at the Hotel
You get a message.
Charles: “Nice overtake today. Also, you’re the one who was blushing.”
You reply:
“Shut up. Go to sleep.”
But you smile the entire time you type it.
---
Silverstone
Silverstone was grey.
Not raining. Not sunny. Just stuck in that British limbo where the air feels like it might cry at any moment.
You arrived early. Charles didn’t.
And that -that- was unusual.
He was always early. Always first in the sim room. First at track walk. First in the debrief seat with his notebook and highlighter like some overachieving student.
But this weekend, he was quieter.
And you noticed.
-
Thursday – Media Day
The questions were more pointed than usual. You’d placed P1 in FP1. Charles, P6.
You kept getting asked about “momentum,” “confidence,” “beating your teammate.”
He kept getting asked about pressure.
And still, you sat side by side for the press conference.
“You good?” you whisper before it starts.
He shrugs. “I’m fine.”
You nudge his knee under the table. “That’s not an answer.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
And that’s when you realize how tired he is.
Not physically. Emotionally.
You nudge again, gentler. “Hey.”
He exhales. “I’m okay. Just… not here yet.”
“Then where are you?”
He doesn’t say it right away.
Then he murmurs, “August. In a quiet place. Without cameras.”
You blink.
“Summer break?” you ask.
He nods.
You pause. “Where?”
“Southern Italy. Friend’s place near the coast.”
Your stomach dips.
“…You’re kidding.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“I-” you bite your lip. “Booked an Airbnb ten minutes from there. Like. Two days ago.”
You stare at each other.
Then he chuckles. “Of course you did.”
“Pure coincidence,” you insist, suddenly hot in your race suit.
“Sure.”
You glare. “I didn’t even know where you were going.”
“I never said you did,” he says, that stupid smug grin appearing.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t make this a thing.”
“Too late,” Carlos says from three seats over.
--
Saturday – Quali Day
It’s wet.
Classic Silverstone.
Charles struggles in Q2, nearly bins it at Stowe. You hold pole for a heartbeat before George snatches it in the dying seconds.
You’ll start P2. Charles, P6.
Back in the garage, he rips off his gloves a little too sharply.
You wait.
And then...
“You’re allowed to be frustrated,” you say, stepping in quietly.
“I’m not frustrated,” he mutters.
“Charles.”
He looks up. Wet curls flattened to his forehead, eyes sharp and tired.
You lower your voice. “It’s not a weakness to feel disappointed.”
He laughs, short and bitter. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’re hard on yourself,” you say. “I think you punish yourself for things the car can’t even control.”
You step closer.
“And I think I hate seeing you like this.”
That stops him cold.
You watch him swallow hard, jaw clenching like he wants to say something but won’t let himself.
“Thanks,” he says softly. “For… whatever that was.”
“Support,” you say.
“Feels dangerous coming from you.”
You smile. “Only if you let it be.”
-
Sunday – Race Day
The track dried up. The race was electric.
George retired early. You led for half the race. Charles clawed back place after place, hungry like he hadn’t been since Monaco.
Lap 48: You were running P1. He was P3, chasing Lando.
Lap 51: He took P2.
Final lap: Both Ferraris on the podium.
P1: Y/N.
P2: Charles.
P3: Max.
Ferrari drowned in red smoke and champagne.
-
Post-Race – Cooldown Room
“You’re two for two,” he says, walking in still half out of breath.
You blink up at him from the bench. “And you’re creeping up on me in points.”
He tosses you a towel. “Scared?”
“Not of you.”
You grin. He does too.
You take a sip of water. “That thing you said the other day.”
“What thing?”
“About August. About being somewhere quiet.”
He nods.
“You still want that?”
He tilts his head. “You offering company?”
You pretend to think about it.
Then shrug. “Pure coincidence, remember?”
He grins. “Sure.”
----
Hungary
Hungary was a slow burner.
Tight corners. Technical turns. Strategy-focused. No chaos unless the weather invited it.
And the weather?
Was knocking.
The forecast kept flipping. Every five minutes a new update. Cloud cover, yes. Rain? Maybe. Thunder? Possible.
You were P3. Charles, P4. Both cars strong. Steady. Waiting for the right storm.
-
Saturday – Night Before the Race
Dinner was quiet. Everyone focused. No wine this time. No Carlos antics. Just calm.
You sat beside Charles by accident.
Or maybe not.
You didn’t speak much. But your knees brushed under the table.
And this time?
Neither of you moved.
-
Race Day – Sunday
Lap 28.
The rain hit.
Just as soft as it started, it threw the whole race into chaos.
Charles ran P2. Again. Right behind you. Shadowing you. Protecting you.
Team radio stayed mostly silent.
Because neither of you needed words anymore.
Final Result: P1 – Y/N. P2 – Charles. Ferrari 1-2.
Three in a row for you.
And for the first time all season, it felt like you could breathe.
-
Post-Race – The Rain Comes Back
The cooldown room was a blur.
Then the podium.
Then the interviews.
Then the chaos.
And finally, finally, you were alone.
Or at least, you thought you were.
You step outside the back of the hospitality tent, just for a minute. The air is wet. The rain’s light but steady, misting your hair, cooling your face.
You close your eyes.
“You always do this?” a voice says behind you.
You open them. He’s there. Leaning on the wall. Drenched.
You exhale. “Needed a minute.”
He walks over. No umbrella. No jacket. Just him.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod slowly. “I think I am.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.
But he wants to.
You pull in a breath. “Feels like everything’s moving so fast. Like one minute I’m terrified and the next I’m winning. Again. And people keep looking at me like I’ve already become the person I’m supposed to be and I’m just—”
You stop.
He steps closer.
“You don’t have to be her all the time,” he says softly.
You blink.
“You can just be you. With me.”
The silence after that stretches. Soft. Real.
Then you say, “You ever think about us?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”
You’re not sure who moves first.
Maybe him. Maybe you.
But suddenly, his forehead is pressed to yours, the rain dripping from his lashes, and it’s like the entire world slows down.
No cameras. No team. No finish line.
Just you and him and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you never stopped being something.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes.
“I never stopped.”
And that?
That’s the moment.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just true.
--
Summer Break Begins
The coast of Southern Italy was slow.
Lazy waves. Salty air. Golden light. The kind of place where the world paused and no one expected anything from you.
You both booked different villas.
Ten minutes apart.
You told the team it was coincidence. You told yourselves it was, too.
But the second night, you were at his place. And neither of you left much after that.
-
Day 1
The sand is cool beneath your feet as the sun dips low on the horizon. The sky’s turning pink. He’s walking beside you, barefoot, jeans rolled, one hand swinging lazily between you like he wants to reach for you but won’t unless you do.
“I hated seeing you win,” he says, so suddenly you stop.
You look at him.
“Not because you don’t deserve it,” he adds. “But because I wasn’t beside you when you got there. Not really.”
Your throat tightens. “That was your choice.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
You walk in silence for a while.
Then he says, “I missed you. As a person. As my person.”
You don’t answer with words.
You just take his hand.
And this time?
He doesn’t let go.
-
Day 3
He says he has a plan. You say you don’t do boats. He says you’ll survive.
You show up in a linen dress and sunglasses. He’s already shirtless, smirking.
The water is impossibly blue. The sky cloudless. It’s just the two of you, a bottle of wine, and playlists you didn’t know he still remembered.
He drops anchor somewhere secluded, switches the engine off, and the only sound left is the sea.
You both lie on the sunpad, close but not touching.
Until he shifts.
And suddenly he’s above you, eyes searching yours, hand gently pushing your hair back.
“You’re staring,” you whisper.
“I’m allowed,” he says. “I used to wake up next to you.”
You reach up. Let your fingers graze his jaw.
“What are we doing?” you ask.
He swallows. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.”
When his mouth finds yours—it’s slow. Familiar. Desperate in a quiet way. Like both of you are afraid you’ll vanish again if you rush it.
You don’t sleep with him that day.
But you fall asleep beside him on the boat, curled under a towel, head on his chest.
And when you wake up, his hand is still in yours.
-
Day 5
It’s after dinner. Wine-soaked. Candle-lit. You’re sitting on the terrace of your villa, legs in his lap, playlist humming low in the background.
He hasn’t kissed you yet today.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
But because he needs to say it first.
“I want this,” he says. “You. Us.”
You stop playing with the hem of his sleeve.
“But I want it right,” he adds. “No hiding. No fear. No thinking you’ll disappear again.”
You nod slowly. “I want that too.”
“But not yet?” he guesses.
“Not yet,” you whisper. “Let’s keep this just ours a little longer.”
He leans in. “You’re already mine.”
You pull him into a kiss before you can cry.
And when he carries you inside that night, it’s not hurried. It’s reverent.
You undress each other like unwrapping something fragile.
When he finally sinks into you, it’s not lust. It’s homecoming.
Slow. Deep. Whispered names. Fingers tangled. Lips pressed to shoulders.
You don’t speak much.
You don’t have to.
You’ve already said everything.
-
Day 8
You come back from the beach to find fairy lights strung across your villa’s patio.
A record player spinning something French. A small table set for two.
He walks out from the kitchen barefoot with a dish he clearly didn’t cook.
“Let’s pretend we’re normal for one night,” he says.
You laugh. “We’re not even pretending we’re not dating.”
He grins. “No cameras. No PR. Just you. And me.”
Dinner turns into dancing.
Dancing turns into kissing.
Kissing turns into bodies pressed against the wall, then the bed, then every surface you can reach.
He makes you come twice before the words even leave his mouth.
“I love you.”
It’s breathless. Honest. Like he’s been holding it for months.
You look at him, sweaty, wrecked, completely yours and say it back.
“I love you too.”
---
When the break ends, you pack separate bags.
Fly separate flights.
Walk into the paddock for Race 12 side by side but not touching.
Just friends.
But at night?
You take the long way back to your motorhome.
And sometimes, when you knock?
He’s already opening the door.
------
Netherlands
The sky over Zandvoort is cloudy. The ocean breeze rolls in from the dunes. The grandstands are orange. Loud. Buzzing. Everyone’s talking about Max.
But the paddock?
The paddock is talking about you.
You arrive with sunglasses on, hoodie up, hair slightly wind-swept from the private car ride you didn’t take with Charles. Definitely not. You walked in separately. Your PR manager made sure of it.
But your lips are a little too pink. Your smile a little too soft.
And when Charles walks in ten minutes later with the same sunglasses, same wind-swept hair, and that ridiculous barely-there smirk?
Yeah.
People notice.
“You think they know?” you murmur beside him as you both wait at the Pirelli media wall.
“I think they’ve always known,” he replies. “We just stopped giving them a reason to guess.”
You lean closer. “You remember the rules?”
He recites, low: “No lingering touches. No inside jokes. No heart-eyes.”
You grin. “And?”
He shrugs. “No fucking in the simulator room.”
You elbow him so hard he coughs.
-
Free Practice – FP2
He follows you out of the garage. Your helmets tap as you pass in the pit lane. Subtle. Routine.
Except he looks at you just before you pull away, and the cameras catch it.
Reddit explodes: "That was not a 'just friends' glance."
-
Quali – Saturday
You’re faster. He knows it.
Your engineer radios in, tells you your Sector 2 is purple.
Charles’s voice cracks through your earpiece:
“Beautiful lap. Go get pole.”
You do.
And later, when he finds you in the back of the motorhome, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp, he doesn’t touch you. Just smiles.
“You’re glowing,” he murmurs.
“So are you,” you say back, even though he didn’t win a thing.
-
Race Day – Sunday
It’s wet. Again. Light drizzle, slick tires.
You start P1. Charles P3.
Lap 28, you're both leading a Ferrari 1-2.
No drama. No fighting. Just clean, perfect coordination.
P1: Y/N.
P2: Charles.
Three wins in a row. Four total. The championship is no longer a dream...it’s real.
-
Post-Race – Press Room
“So,” a journalist starts, “what’s it like racing alongside your friend Charles Leclerc, week after week?”
You smile.
He smiles.
You glance at him, just for a second too long.
And when you answer-
“He’s… steady,” you say. “He’s where I look when I’m overwhelmed. And when I cross the line first, the only person I want to see waiting is him.”
He turns his head. Slowly.
His eyes are soft.
His voice even softer.
“I feel the same.”
Your PR rep nearly faints.
Back in the motorhome
You shut the door behind you.
His hands are in your hair before you even breathe.
Lips locked. Breathless.
He breaks the kiss to whisper:
“Friends don’t do this.”
You grin against his mouth.
“They do now.”
-----
Monza
Monza isn’t just a race.
It’s home.
Not your home. But his. And by now, it feels like yours, too.
The Tifosi line the track like a sea of worship. Flags wave from balconies. Flares smoke up the sky. Every face wears red.
The pressure? It’s unbearable.
The love? Unmatched.
-
Friday – Media Day
The questions are nonstop.
“Can Ferrari win at home?”
“Can Y/N hold her WDC lead?”
“Can Charles challenge for a win without team drama?”
No one asks about your friendship. Not directly.
But when a Sky Sports reporter jokes that you and Charles are "dangerously in sync lately," Charles just smirks.
You?
You sip your water and smile.
The same smile you gave him this morning in bed.
-
Saturday – Quali
Pole goes to Max. You qualify P2. Charles nails P3.
But the radio moment during Q3?
That’s what stirs the internet.
“Let him know I’m pushing,” you tell the team.
A beat.
Then his voice:
“You’re always pushing. That’s what I love about you.”
Silence.
Then a clumsy, “I mean. On track.”
You say nothing.
But you’re laughing inside your helmet.
And so is he.
Reddit is on fire within five minutes.
“That’s what I love about you”?
HELLO?
TELL ME THEY’RE NOT DATING AGAIN I DARE YOU
-
Sunday – Race Day
It’s chaos. DRS trains. Tire degradation. Early pit stops.
But somehow, it’s still a Ferrari 2-3.
P2: Y/N.
P3: Charles.
Max wins. Again.
But the crowd doesn’t care.
Because Ferrari is on the podium.
Because you’re on the podium.
Because when the national anthem plays, and Charles looks at you, not like a teammate, not like an ex, but like everything. The whole world sees it.
-
Post-Race – Parc Fermé
You throw your arms around him before anyone else can.
You don’t kiss him. Not quite.
But your face is so close that the cameraman actually gasps.
His lips brush your cheek. His hands grip your waist. And when you pull back, flushed and breathless, he whispers:
“A couple more races.”
You nod.
“Then we stop pretending.”
-
Garage – 45 minutes later
Carlos finds you both tucked in a back corner.
“You two are so bad at hiding things,” he mutters, peeling a banana.
“We’re not hiding anything,” you say.
Charles nods, deadpan. “We’re just teammates.”
Carlos raises a brow. “Teammates don’t leave lipstick on each other’s necks.”
You slap Charles with a towel.
He just smiles.
-----
Azerbaijan
The streets of Baku are slick with heat.
Everything’s close here. No space to breathe. No space to run.
You’ve been riding high for weeks.
Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft love you’d forgotten how to feel.
So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.
-
Friday – Paddock Arrival
You spot her before he does.
Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. One of those PR-model hybrids who floats between teams and beds with the same trained smile.
