The first time Charles pulls away, it’s so subtle you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
Your hand finds his in the paddock, fingers slipping between his like they always do, like second nature—and for a second, he squeezes back. But then his grip loosens. Not completely. Just enough.
Just enough for doubt to creep in.
You try not to think about it.
He’s busy. It’s a race weekend. There are cameras everywhere, team members walking past, engineers calling his name. You tell yourself it’s nothing, that he’s just distracted.
It’s the way he leans away when you rest your head on his shoulder later, under the Ferrari motorhome awning. The way his responses to your texts get shorter. The way he sighs—quiet, almost under his breath—when you ask, “Will I see you after?”
You start overthinking everything.
Maybe the way you always want to be near him—touching his arm, hugging him from behind, sneaking kisses when no one’s looking—is… suffocating.
You hadn’t meant it to be.
The comment comes out one evening in Monaco, in his apartment, with the city lights glowing through the windows.
You’re curled up next to him on the couch, your legs draped over his lap while he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s quiet. Comfortable. Or at least, it used to feel that way.
You shift closer, resting your head against his shoulder.
“Charles,” you murmur, half-asleep, “you’ve barely looked at me all day.”
Then he exhales—sharp this time.
“Can you not do this tonight?”
Your chest tightens. “Do what?”
“This,” he gestures vaguely, finally looking at you. “Always needing attention. Always… on me.”
It hits harder than you expect.
You sit up slowly. “I’m just… being with you.”
“I know, but it’s—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “It’s a lot sometimes, okay? It feels like you’re always there. Always touching me, always asking for time, for reassurance…”
His voice softens slightly, but the damage is already done.
The word lands like a slap.
You repeat it in your head, tasting how ugly it feels now that it’s attached to you.
Charles immediately looks like he regrets it. You can see it in the way his expression shifts, the tension in his shoulders.
“It’s fine,” you cut in quickly, even though it’s not. “I didn’t realize I was… bothering you.”
“You’re not bothering me,” he says, softer now. “I just—sometimes I need space.”
You nod, even though your throat feels tight.
Things change after that.
No more reaching for his hand first.
No more spontaneous hugs or kisses.
You stop texting him good morning every day. Stop asking if he’s eaten. Stop showing up unannounced just because you miss him.
So much space it starts to feel like a void.
At first, Charles doesn’t notice.
Or maybe he does, but he thinks this is what he wanted.
He has more time to focus. More quiet. Less distraction.
There’s no “good luck” text before qualifying.
No arms wrapping around him after a race.
The way you stand just a little further away in the paddock now, offering him a polite smile instead of throwing yourself into his arms.
The way you hesitate before touching him—like you’re asking permission without words.
The way you don’t touch him at all.
And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like relief.
“Hey,” he says one afternoon, catching your wrist gently as you start to walk past him.
You pause, looking at him with that same careful expression you’ve been wearing for days.
His grip loosens instantly—like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly now.
The irony almost makes you laugh.
“Oh,” you say softly. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“No—I mean, I just… not like this.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Not like what?”
“Not like you’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” you say, but there’s a quiet honesty in your voice that makes it hurt more. “I’m just trying not to be… clingy.”
Charles visibly flinches.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he admits, voice low.
“I meant I was overwhelmed,” he corrects quickly. “Not that you are a problem.”
You don’t answer right away.
And that silence? It scares him more than anything.
“I miss you,” he says suddenly.
Your eyes flicker up to his.
“No,” he shakes his head, stepping closer. “Not like before.”
There’s something raw in his voice now. Something honest.
“I miss you grabbing my hand without thinking. I miss you talking too much when I’m tired. I miss you being… you.”
Your guard wavers, just a little.
“I was wrong,” he cuts in, softer this time. “I got stressed, and I pushed it onto you. That’s not fair.”
“It just felt like… I was too much for you.”
His expression softens completely now.
“You’re not too much,” he says, reaching for your hand again—this time holding on. “You’re just… a lot of love. And I didn’t realize how much I needed it until it wasn’t there.”
Your fingers twitch in his, hesitant.
He nods, bringing your hand to his chest.
“I don’t want less of you,” he says. “I just need to learn how to ask for space without making you feel like you have to disappear.”
Giving him the chance to pull away.
Instead, he pulls you in first—arms wrapping around you tightly, like he’s been holding back for days.
You melt into him before you can stop yourself.
“Missed you,” you mumble against his chest.
He presses a kiss to your hair.
“Don’t stop being clingy,” he murmurs.
A small smile tugs at your lips.
“Careful,” you whisper. “You might regret saying that.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, tightening his hold.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But I think I’ll survive.”
