have you seen that video of Max when he was 16 drifting the car? would you be ok writing smt where like, readers the youngest rookie(maybe 16-17) and she drifts her car in FP1 or 2 and everyone looses their minds. maybe she does it again in the actual race and podiums? you totally don’t have to! i know you’re busy, just wanted to get the idea out there! i love your writing so much i hope you’re doing well!
🏁 “SHE TURNED THE STEERING WHEEL SIDEWAYS AND THE SPORT CHANGED FOREVER”
Genre: Crack treated seriously, prodigy!reader, motorsport lore, chaos, pride, awe
Pairing: Platonic! 2025F1 Grid x Driver!Reader
Warnings: Heart attacks in team principals, FIA sweating, commentators losing professionalism, history being made
A/N: Inspired by Max Verstappen’s “this kid is illegal” era but turned up to eleven. If you like prodigy chaos, buckle up.
No one knows what to do with you.
That’s the problem.
At sixteen—barely seventeen by the time the season starts—you’re the youngest rookie the grid has ever seen. Younger than Max was. Younger than anyone feels comfortable admitting out loud.
You don’t look intimidating.
You’re small, quiet, helmet always on early, hands tucked into your sleeves, posture relaxed like you’re about to take a nap instead of drive a Formula One car.
The paddock doesn’t buzz when you walk by.
They whisper.
“That’s the kid.”
“She’s not even old enough to—”
“This has to be a PR thing.”
Max Verstappen watches you the way a wolf watches a cub.
Not judgmental.
Curious.
✦ FP1 — THE MOMENT EVERYTHING GOES WRONG (FOR EVERYONE ELSE)
FP1 starts like normal.
The usual warm-up laps.
The usual radio chatter.
The usual commentators half-paying attention.
Until you reach Turn 9.
A fast corner.
High commitment.
No margin for error.
You turn in.
And then—
The car steps out.
Just slightly.
The rear rotates.
The nose points where physics says it shouldn’t.
For half a second, the entire paddock holds its breath—
Omg wait, the shirt story was so cute! What about CL16 being a new dad and his baby girl loves sleeping in the car and maybe the fans have noticed that he is driving slower? I hope that makes sense
Baby on board [CL16)
Summary: Charles newborn baby girl Yn loves to sleep in the car. So Charles doesn't hesitate to drive her around Monaco whenever she wants.
Authors Note: Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this story. I tried to add my own special touch in this and added a "social media" part? (Idk what it's actually called). Thank you to this lovely user for this sweet request.
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F1_gossip posted
Liked by username7, username9 and others
Seems like Monaco's darling Charles Leclerc has started some interesting driving habits. Apparently the driver was not only seen out driving at very weird times, but he always drove very slowly. What could be going on with Leclerc?
View comments:
username1 omg so true? Like what's going on with him???
username2 he always looks so good
username3 driving for Ferrari does that to you
username0 wait, he has a new car?!
username07 why is he driving so slow
username55 please don't post this, it doesn't concern us
username23 did someone steal his accelerator
username87 true, I actually saw him driving around at 3am, he was going super slow
username74 is he okay
username63 maybe he has insomnia???
username41 Did yall forget that he just became a dad or?
username33 so???
username41 so what if he had his baby there
username88 wait, why is this valid
username6 if this is true, please take down the post
username90 ture, let's respect their privacy
The apartment was quiet in that very particular way that only existed after midnight in Monaco.
Not the glamorous, postcard Monaco. Not the yachts or champagne or music drifting through open balconies. This was the soft, sleepy version—streetlights humming gently, the distant echo of waves somewhere below the cliff, and the low ticking of a kitchen clock that Charles had forgotten to turn off.
Yn was awake.
He knew it before she made a sound.
Charles lay on his side on the couch, one arm draped awkwardly around a folded blanket, eyes half-open, listening. He held his breath, counting in his head.
One.
Two.
Three—
A tiny noise broke the silence. Not a full cry. Just a soft, confused whimper, like she wasn’t sure yet whether she wanted to be upset.
He padded barefoot across the living room toward the bassinet by the window. Yn lay bundled in pale pink, impossibly small, her fists tucked close to her chest. Her face scrunched up as she blinked, dark lashes fluttering.
Charles leaned over her, heart doing that stupid painful thing it had been doing since the day she was born.
“How are you this tiny,” he murmured. “You’re not real.”
Her lip trembled.
“Okay, okay,” he said quickly, sliding his hands beneath her with practiced care. He lifted her against his chest, supporting her head exactly the way the nurse had shown him, the way he had practiced over and over until his movements were muscle memory.
Yn let out a quiet cry. Not loud. Just offended.
“I know,” Charles whispered, swaying gently. “I know. It’s terrible being awake at two in the morning.”
He walked slow circles around the living room, rocking her softly. He hummed under his breath—something tuneless, something his own father used to hum when Arthur was small.
Yn didn’t settle.
Her cry grew sharper, her little body stiffening slightly against his chest.
Charles stopped walking.
“Hmm,” he murmured, brow furrowing. “Okay. Okay, let’s think.”
He tried the bottle. She took a few sips, then pushed it away, frowning like she was deeply unimpressed.
He changed her diaper, whispering apologies the whole time.
“I know, I know. Worst thing ever. I’m sorry. I would be mad too.”
Still, she fussed.
Charles sighed quietly and glanced at the clock on the wall.
2:07 a.m.
He looked down at her face, red and scrunched, eyes shiny with tears.
And then he smiled.
“Oh,” he breathed, realization clicking into place. “You want the car.”
It had surprised him the first time it happened.
She’d been only a few days old. Nothing had worked—rocking, feeding, walking, bouncing on an exercise ball at four in the morning like a man who had completely lost his mind.
Out of sheer desperation, he’d buckled her into the car seat and gone for a drive.
She’d fallen asleep before he reached the end of the street.
Since then, it had become their thing.
Charles moved quietly, deliberately, slipping on a hoodie and sneakers while holding Yn against his chest. He grabbed the car seat with his free hand, checking—again—that everything was properly adjusted.
“You and me,” he whispered to her. “Let’s go.”
The garage echoed softly as he opened the door. The car lights blinked on, gentle and dim, as he settled Yn into her seat with careful hands.
“Okay,” he murmured, leaning in close. “You’re safe. Papa’s here.”
He kissed her forehead, right between her eyebrows, then straightened and slid into the driver’s seat.
The engine started with a soft purr.
Charles pulled out of the garage and onto the empty street, driving slower than he ever had in his life.
Monaco at night felt like a secret.
The roads were empty, the city hushed, like it was holding its breath. Streetlights cast golden pools on the pavement as Charles drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near Yn’s seat as if proximity alone could protect her.
Within minutes, her cries softened.
Then stopped.
Charles glanced in the rearview mirror.
Yn was asleep.
Her mouth had fallen open just slightly, lashes resting against her cheeks. One tiny hand was curled into the fabric of her blanket.
Charles smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.
“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course this works.”
He drove on, tracing familiar routes—along the harbor, past silent cafés, up the winding roads where he usually attacked corners with precision and speed.
Tonight, he barely touched the accelerator.
Every turn was smooth. Every movement careful.
It didn’t matter.
She slept.
He was turning onto a long, empty stretch near the port when flashing blue lights suddenly filled the mirrors.
Charles’s heart jumped straight into his throat.
“Oh,” he breathed, instinctively easing off the accelerator even more. “Oh no.”
He pulled over immediately, parking carefully at the curb. His hands were steady, but his mind raced.
It’s two in the morning. I’m driving at twenty kilometers per hour. This looks ridiculous.
He glanced back at Yn.
Still asleep.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Papa’s got this.”
The police car pulled in behind him. A door opened. Footsteps approached.
Charles rolled down the window slowly.
The officer leaned in slightly, flashlight angled toward the car.
“Bonsoir,” the officer said politely. “Everything okay tonight?”
“Yes—yes,” Charles replied quickly, then stopped himself and smiled sheepishly. “I mean, yes. Sorry. I wasn’t speeding or—”
“We noticed,” the officer said, glancing at the speedometer. His tone was neutral, curious rather than stern. “You were driving very slowly.”
Charles nodded. “Yes. I know. I’m sorry if that’s not—”
The officer’s gaze shifted past Charles, toward the back seat.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Charles followed his look and softened immediately.
“My daughter,” he said quietly. “She’s a newborn.”
The officer leaned slightly to the side, peering in more carefully.
Yn slept peacefully, completely unaware of the situation.
“Oh,” the officer said, his voice dropping automatically. “She’s tiny.”
Charles nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling. “She really likes the car. It helps her sleep. So… I drive.”
“At two in the morning,” the officer added, amused.
Charles chuckled under his breath. “Yes. At two in the morning. Or three. Or whenever she needs it.”
The officer straightened, exchanging a glance with his partner.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Charles replied sincerely.
“You’re doing nothing wrong,” the officer continued. “Just… maybe keep it safe.”
“I promise,” Charles said immediately. “Very safe.”
The officer smiled, stepping back. “Alright. Keep going.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, relief washing over him. “Really.”
As the police car pulled away, Charles let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered to Yn. “You charmed the police.”
He drove a little longer, just to be sure she was settled, before heading home.
The next morning—or afternoon, really—Charles was on the couch with Yn asleep on his chest when his phone buzzed.
Arthur.
He reached for it carefully, making sure not to disturb her.
Arthur:
bro 😭
Charles frowned slightly and typed back.
Charles:
What?
Arthur:
Have you been driving like a grandpa lately?
Charles blinked.
Charles:
…maybe
Arthur:
Twitter is losing it
Charles sighed, already smiling.
Charles:
What did I do now
Arthur:
People think you’ve lost your edge 😭
“why is he driving so slow”
“is he okay”
“did someone steal his accelerator”
Charles laughed silently, shoulders shaking just a little. Yn stirred but didn’t wake.
Arthur:
Someone literally tracked your night drives 😭
Charles shook his head, amused.
Charles:
Tell them it’s strategic
Arthur:
I told them you’re training for endurance at 20 km/h
Charles snorted.
He looked down at Yn, her tiny chest rising and falling against his own.
“Worth it,” he whispered.
His phone buzzed again.
Arthur:
You’re a good dad, you know
Charles swallowed, emotion tightening his chest unexpectedly.
Charles:
I’m trying
Arthur:
She’s lucky
Charles turned off his phone and rested his head back, eyes closing as he breathed her in.
Summary: You're pregnant and you try and hide it because you're scared how he'll react
Song: My Love · Justin Timberlake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
You glance over your shoulder, half‑expecting to see Charles Leclerc slipping through the crowd, his dark eyes searching for you. He’s late, as usual, caught up in a sea of photographers, fans, and the endless choreography of a Grand Prix weekend.
You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, smooth the fabric of your dress, and sip the cold water that tastes faintly of citrus.
The last time you saw Charles, his smile had been unguarded, his hand warm around yours as you walked hand‑in‑hand through the narrow streets of Monte Carlo.
That night, after the race, the city seemed to belong to you both, lit by lanterns and the soft glow of the sea.
You had thought that the night would be the start of something simple, something that could be added to the list of “firsts” you already kept—first kiss in a French bakery, first time you’d dared to let yourself be vulnerable with a man whose life seemed to orbit around the sound of an engine.
But the list had grown longer, and one entry you hadn’t been prepared for had slipped between the lines: pregnant.
It started with a missed period, a subtle shift in your body that you brushed off as stress. The grueling training schedules, the late‑night meetings, the endless travel took a toll. You thought maybe you were just tired, that your mind was playing tricks on you.
Then the nausea arrived, a tide that rose with the scent of coffee and the taste of fresh croissants. When you finally sat down with a doctor in a quiet office in Geneva, the words came out in hushed tones—positive—and the world tipped on its axis.
You left the clinic with a crumpled piece of paper, a list of appointments, and a secret that pressed against your ribs like a fragile, new life.
You didn’t tell Charles. You couldn’t. The thought of his reaction flooded your mind: would his eyes widen in surprise, or would his smile crumble into something you didn’t recognize? Would his racing instinct—always about control, about precision— try to steer you away from this unknown curve?
You thought about the headlines, the paparazzi, the way a single photo could shatter the delicate bubble you had built around this private joy.
You spent the next few days moving in a careful dance. You changed the way you smiled, the way you shifted your weight when you walked, the way you swore under your breath when the world got too loud.
The first time you felt the baby kick, it was as if a tiny, mischievous engine had ignited inside you. You laughed, a private, breathless sound, and pressed a hand to your womb as if you were cradling a new kind of trophy, one you didn’t want to showcase.
But you were still in the public eye. The paparazzi followed you wherever you went, lenses glinting like hungry moths. You learned to shield yourself, to conceal the blossoming curve beneath loose fabrics and strategic poses.
You bought a wrap that draped over your hips, a black dress that fell just enough to hide the change. You began to avoid the places where Charles would meet you—no more spontaneous breakfasts at the Café de Paris, no more late‑night walks along the harbor.
You told him you had a tour of a new sponsor’s facility in London, and you left the phone at the hotel to avoid the buzzing messages that might betray a confession.
One evening, after a race in Singapore—rain slashing through the night, headlights carving out the slick track—you found yourself alone in the dimly lit hotel room you shared for a night.
Charles had gone out to celebrate with his team, a bottle of champagne clinking against a celebration that felt surreal when you were alone with a secret in your chest.
You stood at the window, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. The thought that you were carrying a future, a tiny heart beating in sync with yours, made you feel both fragile and fierce.
You pressed your hand to the small, swollen curve and whispered to the night: I’m scared, Charles. I’m scared of what this will make you think of me.
You remembered the first time you had walked into his garage, the polished Ferrari that seemed to hum beneath your feet. You had held his hand, felt the heat of his skin, and heard his voice—soft, confident—promise that he would protect her, protect you. “I’ll always be there,” he had said.
At the time, that promise had been about races, about his future in Formula One. Now those words swirled like a promise to protect something that was yours, his, and theirs.
Your phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number, a rumor that a picture from the Monaco pit lane showing you with a larger belly had leaked. Your heart slammed into your throat.
The thought of the world seeing you in this vulnerable state—it was too much. In the panic, you pushed the phone away and slipped into the bed that was too large, too cold without Charles’s presence.
The next morning, the race in Barcelona was a whirlwind. Charles’s car roared out of the garage, the crowd’s cheers a thunderous chorus. You sat in the stands, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tightly around a coffee cup that felt less like caffeine and more like a lifeline.
As the laps ticked by, you caught glimpses of Charles’s face—determined, focused, his jaw set. He was a man in his element, each turn a dance with destiny. In that moment, you felt an ache in your chest that had nothing to do with the pregnancy.
It was the longing for his reassurance, for the way he’d hold you in his arms and say everything would be okay.
After the race, as Charles’s car crossed the finish line in first place, the crowd erupted, the stadium shimmering with confetti and flashing lights. He raised his hand in victory, a triumphant grin splitting his face.
Your eyes met his from a distance. For a split second, the world seemed to narrow to that exchange, and you felt a flicker of hope—perhaps he’d notice something, perhaps his gaze lingered a little longer, perhaps he’d see you with new eyes.
Instead, he jogged past the pit lane with his team, his hair slicked back, his smile bright for the cameras. He caught sight of you, but the moment was fleeting.
He nodded, gave a quick wave that was meant for the crowd, and disappeared into the sea of journalists. The sound of engines still thrummed in your ears, but the silence that followed was deafening.
You left the stadium with a heavy heart, your steps echoing on the empty streets. The city’s old stone seemed to whisper, “You can’t hide forever.”
The words struck a chord. The secret was no longer a whisper; it was a drumbeat growing louder with each passing day.
Days turned into weeks. You were on a whirlwind of appointments—doctors, nutritionists, ultrasounds. Each visit was a secret dance, the staff aware but bound by confidentiality, the hospital corridor a sanctuary where you could breathe without the weight of a thousand eyes. You watched the little heart on the screen, a flicker of light that seemed to pulse in time with your own.
One afternoon, you found yourself in a small café on the Rue du Port, a quiet spot where the sea whispered through the open windows. You sipped a cappuccino, the foam light as clouds.
As you stared out at the water, you saw a figure strolling toward you, his silhouette familiar, his stride confident. Charles stopped a few steps away, his eyes widening not because of the crowd but because of something else—perhaps curiosity, perhaps concern.
He took a seat opposite you without asking, the motion smooth, as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times.
“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than the roar of an engine, “You look… different.”
You forced a smile, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Just trying to hide from the paparazzi,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. Inside, however, you felt the tremor of a secret waiting to burst.
He ordered a coffee, then leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “What’s really going on, “you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing not in accusation but in the kind of concern that makes you feel seen. “You’ve been distant. I’ve tried calling, texting. I thought you’d be at the sponsor’s event—"
Your throat tightened. “I… I’ve been busy,” you said, the words tasting like sand. “A lot of meetings, a lot of travel. It’s… exhausting.”
He let out a breath that seemed to carry a thousand unasked questions. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I mean, we’ve been together for two years now. We’ve shared so much. I’m here for the… for what ever you need.”
Your heart pounded louder than any engine you’d ever heard. You could feel the baby’s movements—soft kicks that seemed to echo the rhythm of his words.
You imagined the little one’s tiny hands feeling his touch, his voice swirling around them long before they ever met his skin.
You swallowed, trying to find the right words, the precise phrasing that would protect the fragile new world you had cultivated. “Charles, there’s something I need to tell you, something… important.”
He nodded, eyes never leaving yours. “Okay.”
You took a deep breath, feeling the life inside you rise and fall like a wave. “I’m pregnant.” The words left your mouth as if they had been waiting for a moment, a pause, a breath. The sentence hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze—just as the cameras freeze a car at a corner. Charles blinked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, his mouth opening a fraction. “Pregnant?” he repeated, the word tasting foreign in his mouth. “You… you’re…”
Your voice trembled, “I’m scared. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want the world to… to turn us into something we’re not.”
Silence settled for a second, and then, slowly, a smile began to form at the edge of his lips. Not a congratulatory grin, not a laugh, but a soft, genuine curve that spoke of relief and joy and an unexpected tenderness.
He reached across the table, his hand brushing yours, fingers intertwining like a racecar’s chassis and engine, perfect and inseparable.
“You’re scared,” he said, his voice low, “and I get that. I’ve spent my whole life trying to control the track, the speed, the outcomes. I never imagined a moment where I’d have to let go of that control, where I’d have to trust something… something that was entirely beyond my hand.”
He paused, his eyes searching yours, the depth of his gaze like the night sky over Monaco. “But I want to be there, for you… for us… for this little one. I want to be the kind of partner who’s there at the start line and at the finish line, not just for the races but for every moment that comes after.”
You felt tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, unbidden, but not from fear. It was relief—a tide that rose and washed away the heaviness you had carried alone for weeks.
You laughed, a sound that seemed to echo the cheers of a crowd, but this time the applause was internal, intimate.
“I thought you’d be upset,” you whispered, “that you’d think this… this changes everything.”
He squeezed your hand. “No,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, “It changes everything, but in a good way. It shows us what we’re capable of, together. It’s not a detour; it’s a new circuit.”
You both sat there for a while, the café’s soft music playing lightly, the sea’s breeze rustling through the open windows. He told you about the next race, about a new contract he’d signed, about the way his team had been working late into the night to perfect his car.
You told him about your ultrasound, about the way the tiny heart fluttered to the rhythm of his voice when you sang a lullaby (a ridiculous thing you’d never dared to try before). He listened, his eyes never wavering, his hand never loosening its grip.
“You know,” Charles said after a moment, “I’ve always loved the rush of the track. The way the crowd roars when I cross the finish line. But… this—this is a different kind of finish line for me. One I want to cross with you, every single day.”
You felt the world tilt, not with fear, but with an exhilarating sense of possibility. The secret that had once weighed you down now felt like a light that illuminated a new path.
You realized that the biggest risk you’d ever taken was not a daring overtake on a hairpin turn, but sharing your vulnerability. And it had paid off.
The weeks that followed became a blur of preparation and new rhythms. Charles, ever the professional, adjusted his schedule, fitting prenatal appointments into his training regime.
He showed up at the hospital in his casual attire—a simple white shirt and jeans—handing you a bouquet of wildflowers from his garden in Monaco, his smile brighter than any trophy he’d ever won.
Together, you painted the nursery in soft pastel colors, hanging a mural of a racing car with a baby’s cradle beside it. You laughed as Charles tried to assemble the crib, his hands more accustomed to fine‑tuning a pit stop than tightening bolts.
“Who knew my biggest challenge would be a flat-pack,” he joked, and you couldn’t help but pull him close, your kiss tasting of espresso and new beginnings.
There were moments when the media caught wind of your news. The first headline read, “Charles Leclerc Announces Expectant Fatherhood—A New Chapter Begins.”
The world swarmed, cameras flashing, journalists probing for details. You held onto each other in the eye of the storm, refusing to let the noise drown out the private joy you both felt.
The day Charles raced in Singapore for the second time after the news broke, you stood in the grandstand, your hand pressed to your belly, feeling the baby’s gentle kicks as if urging his father on.
The track glittered under the night lights, the roar of engines a distant thunder to the whispered promise in your hearts. Charles’s car lined up on the grid, his eyes catching yours for a split second.
He gave you a thumbs up—an unspoken message that he felt every lap with you, that the speed of his heart matched the beat of the tiny life within you.
He won that race too. The crowd erupted, the champagne sprayed, and this time when he lifted his trophy, he held it higher, as if dedicating it to the future person who would one day sit in those stands cheering for him.
Months later, the day came when you finally felt the world tilt in a different way. The labor was a fierce, beautiful battle—one where you weren’t the only one fighting for the finish line.
Charles was at your side, his hands gripping yours, his voice a steady murmur: “You’ve got this. In me, you’ve always had a team. Now you have a whole new crew.”
As the baby entered the world, the first cry echoed louder than any engine rev you’d ever heard.
You held your child—soft skin, a mop of dark hair, eyes that seemed to hold a universe of possibilities. Charles stared, tears spilling down his cheeks, his own heartbeat syncopated with yours. He whispered, “Welcome to the world, little one. You’re already a champion.”
You realized then that the secret you had tried so hard to hide had become the most powerful thing about you—something that brought you closer to the man you loved, an event that turned a private fear into a shared triumph.
Your relationship with Charles evolved, shifting from the intensity of a high‑speed romance to the steady cadence of partnership. You found joy in the mundane: late‑night diaper changes, shared breakfast while the sun rose over the Mediterranean, and quiet evenings where Charles would play a piano, his voice low, singing lullabies that echoed the rhythm of the track he once dominated.
There were still moments when the world intruded—photos, interviews, the occasional intrusive question about how he balanced fatherhood and racing.
Charles handled them with the same poise he’d shown on the track, deflecting with humor, redirecting focus to his family, and always, always looking at you with a love that was both fierce and gentle.
One night, after a successful race where he had secured pole position, Charles returned home to find you already asleep, a tiny hand curled around his own, his baby resting against his chest.
He hovered there, looking at the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the gentle smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. He whispered,
“We’ve come a long way,” and brushed a kiss on your forehead.
You opened your eyes, the moonlight sliding over the room, framing the silhouettes of both men you loved—the driver and the father, the same person wearing different helmets.
You smiled, feeling the rhythm of your own heart sync with the two you cherished. “Yes,” you said softly. “And we’ll keep racing, in our own way.”
In the weeks that followed, you found a new kind of balance. The track was still there, but your home became the place where the most meaningful victories were celebrated—first steps, first words, the quiet moments of connection that made all the applause of the world seem distant.
You learned that love, like a race, was not just about speed, but about endurance, strategy, and the willingness to take chances when the odds seemed impossible.
You had once hidden a secret out of fear, but now you wore it like a badge, a mark of the journey you took together—through the roar of engines, the hush of a hospital, the bright lights of the podium, and the soft glow of a nightlight.
And as you tucked your child into a crib painted with little racing cars, you glanced at Charles, who was already dozing, a faint smile pulling at his lips.
He woke, leaned over, and whispered, “Do you ever think about the first time we met, how we were so sure of everything?”
You laughed, a sound warm and full. “I didn’t know how uncertain I could be,” you replied, “but I’m glad we both learned to trust the unknown.”
He pulled you close, your bodies fitting together like two perfectly tuned parts of a machine. The world outside might continue to spin, the race track might continue to roar, but in that small room filled with love, the only sound you needed to hear was the steady beating of two hearts—yours, his, and the tiny promise that floated between them.
And as the night deepened, you felt a gentle, steady breath against your cheek—a whisper from the future, a reminder that the greatest victories are not measured in trophies or lap times, but in the quiet, unyielding love that carries you forward, no matter how fast the world tries to move.
You lean back, eyes closing, the rhythm of your child’s tiny heart matching yours, and you realize that the secret you once tried to hide was never a burden at all, but a gift—a new circuit to navigate hand in hand with Charles, a race that will never end, and a love that will always find its finish line. . . .
can you write a story on a sainz sister dating charles leclerc after divorcing max verstappen with whom she has a kid which leads to drama at the paddock.
karma wears prada — cl16
smau + written blurbs
charles leclerc x !sainz reader
max verstappen x !ex sainz reader
you were pop royalty — platinum records, sold-out stadiums, your voice on every chart and every stage. he was formula 1’s golden boy — fast, ruthless, worshipped by millions. you married in secret. you had a daughter. you built a quiet world of your own, away from headlines and cameras. and for a while, it was perfect. until it wasn’t.
when the truth came out — first as a rumor, then a photo, then undeniable — you packed your bags, held your baby close, and walked away from the man who promised you forever. you thought you’d have to face the fallout alone. you didn’t expect charles leclerc.
your brother’s teammate. his best friend. the one who never looked at you like you were broken. the one who made your daughter laugh before you could smile again. now, the paddock is on fire — caught between loyalty and betrayal, rage and whispers, broken hearts and new beginnings. and as the world watches, one question remains:
can you start over when the whole world is still watching the wreckage?
fc : kali uchis (i have vip tickets to see kali in less than a month in a half!!! my motherrrrr) (also used some pics of alexandra teehee)
before you read + (a/n): hiiii pookie!! took me forever to perfect this so i hope you enjoy!! max is lowkey an asshole in this so im soz and carlos is still w ferrari because in my mind i never had to go through that divorce too :) alsooo no hate to kelly, anything said is just for the purpose of my fictional nonsense.
—
deuxmoi
5,702,005 likes.
deuxmoi : yep. this one is reallllll messy. and we still have yet to get to the bottom of it. stay tuned.
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view 789,000 other comments.
username000 : max CHEATED on THE yn sainz??? oh he’s never finishing a race again i fear 😭
username00 : kelly piquet must have a punch card at this point. one more and she gets a free f1 car
liked by deuxmoi and yn_sainz
↳ username00 : oop our queen is here. confirmation?
username0 : carlos is going to body slam him in the paddock.
username1 : she gave birth like a YEAR AGO. men are actual demons. protect yn at all costs.
username5 : i just KNOW her breakup album is gonna end careers. drop the tracklist queen xx
username7 : carlos unfollowing max and then reposting an old pic of yn with her daughter?? family comes FIRST 😤
username10 : she gave him a marriage, a child, and silence. and he gave her kelly piquet.
username11 : i just KNOW the group chat with carmen, alexandra, and lily is on fire right now.
username15 : can’t wait for the ‘you fumbled the woman everyone wanted’ edits. they’re loading as we speak.
—
flashback
monaco, 2:12am
You shouldn’t be awake. You’re rocking your daughter gently in the crook of your arm, whispering half remembered lullabies against her soft hair. She’s teething again. Clingier than usual. You don’t mind. It gives you something to do. Something to hold onto.
Your phone buzzes on the counter — a quiet vibration you almost ignore. But something in you, some sliver of unease that’s been growing for months now, makes you look. It’s a DM. From a name you don’t recognize. You open it.
I’m sorry if this is overstepping but… I didn’t know you and Max were still together. He told me you were separated. I wouldn’t have— You don’t deserve this.
There’s a screenshot. A message thread. A photo. Your husband. Smiling. Someone else’s hand on his jaw. Time slows. Your daughter fusses in your arms. You stare at the screen and feel nothing. Not right away. Just a long, slow ache in your chest, like something is pressing down and refusing to let go.
You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You press a kiss to your daughter’s temple and whisper, “Okay, baby. Okay. We’re leaving.”
—
Four hours later, the sun is barely up when the car arrives. You move quietly, deliberately, packing only what you need. You don’t leave a note. You don’t send a message. You take your daughter, her favorite stuffed animal, your passport, and disappear.
By the time Max wakes up to an empty apartment, you’re already on a flight to Ibiza.
No PR statement. No explanations. Just silence.
And the beginning of something new. For you. For your child.
—
the next morning
ibiza – 8:06 AM
The villa is too quiet. It sits tucked away in the hills, ocean just visible beyond the terrace, sun pouring into the white-washed kitchen. There’s a stillness here that makes your heart ache.
Your daughter sits in her high chair, fingers messy with banana, babbling to herself. She’s safe. She’s happy. She doesn’t know. You sip your coffee with trembling hands.
You haven’t turned your phone back on. Not yet. You can’t. You know the second you do, the world will rush in — agents, lawyers, team PR, headlines, Max. You want to stay in this moment just a little longer. Just you and her. The soft morning light. The sound of birds. The smell of the sea. You want silence. And for the first time in months, you have it.
—
monaco – 8:11 AM
Max wakes up to your absence like it’s a punch to the gut. At first, he thinks maybe you’ve taken the baby out for a walk. But the bed is cold. The closet is half-empty. The pacifier on the nightstand is gone.
Then he sees the open drawer. The missing passports. The baby monitor left behind. He calls you. Straight to voicemail. He calls again. Then again. He checks your location. Disabled.
Panic sets in. Not loud, but deep. Spreading. Heavy. He opens Instagram and sees it.
“Pop Star YN Sainz Allegedly Left Monaco With Daughter After Cheating Scandal – Sources Say Max Verstappen Seen With Kelly Piquet in St. Tropez”
And for the first time, it hits him: You’re not coming back.
—
madrid – 8:23 AM
Carlos nearly drops his phone when he sees the post. He reads it twice. Then again. And again. He doesn’t text you. He calls. You answer on the third ring.
“Hola?” your voice is quiet. Steady. But he knows you. He hears it. The exhaustion. The heartbreak.
“Tell me where you are.”
“Safe,” you say.
There’s a pause. You hear him breathing. Hear him trying to hold himself back.
“I’m going to kill him,” Carlos says flatly.
You almost laugh. “Get in line.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer:
“You should’ve called me.”
“I didn’t want anyone trying to talk me out of it.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
You believe him.
He exhales. “I’m coming to see you after the race.”
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Okay.”
“Love you, hermanita.”
“Love you more.”
—
present day (race day)
The baby’s asleep. You’re lying on the couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin, phone resting on your stomach, TV muted. The pre race coverage flickers silently on the screen — cars in garages, skycams over the grandstands, an interviewer smiling too widely. You haven’t watched anything F1 related since you left Monaco. You tell yourself it’s because you’re busy. You’re a mother. You’re tired. But really… it’s because you can’t stomach seeing him in red and blue. Can’t stomach the way the world still treats him like nothing happened. Like you didn’t. Your phone buzzes quietly.
Charles Leclerc
You stare at the screen for a moment, startled. Then swipe to answer.
“Bonjour,” you say softly.
He chuckles under his breath. “That’s a terrible accent.”
You smile for the first time in hours. “Well, I’ve had other things on my mind.”
There’s noise in the background — voices, radios, something metallic being dropped. The paddock, alive and buzzing. You picture him sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, race suit halfway on, hair messy from the helmet fitting.
“I just wanted to check on you,” he says. “Before everything gets loud.”
Your chest tightens. He sounds calm. Gentle. Not like the rest of them — who all called asking for statements, reactions, damage control.
“You really don’t have to do that,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”
Silence settles for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
“How’s the little one?” he asks.
“Asleep,” you say. “Teething still. I haven’t slept properly in four days.”
Charles hums. “You need a break.”
“I need a time machine.”
He laughs quietly. “Well, I can’t offer that. But if you ever need someone to sit with her while you nap... I’m quite good with babies, you know.”
You can’t help the warmth that spreads in your chest. “Are you?”
“I have proof. I held Pierre’s niece once and she didn’t cry.”
“That’s a low bar, Charles.”
Another soft laugh. “I’ll take what I can get.”
You glance at the screen again. They’re showing Carlos now — focused, arms crossed, deep in discussion with his engineer. Your brother. Your anchor.
“You should go,” you say gently. “It’s race day.”
There’s a pause. Then: “You’ll be watching?”
You hesitate. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why.
“Either way,” he says, voice quiet now, “I’m racing for you today.”
Your throat tightens.
“Good luck, Charles.”
“Merci, ma belle.”
The line goes quiet. The paddock fades from your ear. You sit in the stillness of the Ibiza villa, blinking at the television, heart beating a little differently than before.
—
3rd person pov
The confetti hasn’t even settled yet. Carlos is out of the car before his engineer can reach him, helmet off, jaw clenched. He doesn’t even look toward the cameras. Doesn’t acknowledge the cheers. There’s only one person in his line of sight — standing ten feet away in Red Bull gear, smug smile plastered on his face. Max. Third place. Another podium. Another reason to pretend like nothing happened. Carlos moves before anyone can stop him.
“Don’t,” Charles mutters under his breath as he tosses his own gloves down and jogs after him. “Carlos.”
But Carlos doesn’t stop. He’s already standing in front of Max, every muscle in his body pulled taut. Max turns slowly, lazily. Like he doesn’t know what’s coming. Like he thinks he’s still untouchable.
“You think I don’t know what you did?” Carlos spits, voice low but venomous.
Max shrugs. “If this is about your sister, that’s not really—”
Charles steps in fast, hand to Carlos’s chest, firm and calm. “Stop.”
“Move, Charles.”
“No.”
Carlos’s eyes flash. “He cheated on her. Lied to her. Let her disappear with his daughter and then ran off to play boyfriend with Kelly like it was nothing. And now he’s standing here like—like he deserves to celebrate anything.”
“I know,” Charles says softly. “I know. But don’t give him what he wants.”
Max scoffs. “What I want?”
Charles doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay locked on Carlos. “You won. You raced for her today. Don’t let him take that from you.”
Carlos is shaking. But his hands curl into fists, not around Max’s collar, just at his sides.
“I need to see her,” he mutters.
Charles nods. “I was going to ask if I could come with you.”
Carlos blinks. For the first time all day, his face softens—just barely.
“You sure?”
“I promised I’d check on her,” Charles says. “I meant it.”
Carlos exhales through his nose, chest still rising and falling too fast. Behind them, Max walks away like nothing happened. Ahead of them, the exit looms — press waiting, questions brewing, cameras ready. But Carlos claps a hand to Charles’s shoulder and mutters, “Let’s get out of here.”
—
back to 2nd pov!
You weren’t expecting visitors. You’re in an old t-shirt, hair twisted into a messy bun, pacing the kitchen with your daughter on your hip, humming softly to keep her calm. The day’s been long — teething again, of course — and you’d barely kept your eyes open through the first half of the race. You didn’t even check the results. You just… didn’t have it in you today. Then your phone rings. Carlos. You answer immediately.
“I’m ten minutes away,” he says. No hello. Just that. “Don’t freak out.”
“What do you mean—? Ten minutes away from what?”
“From you.”
You blink, shifting your daughter higher on your hip. “Wait, you’re here? In Ibiza?”
“Yup.”
“Carlos—”
“And I brought someone,” he says quickly, before you can ask. “Just—open the door when we knock, okay?”
He hangs up before you can respond. Your heart stutters. You glance down at your daughter, who’s now wide-eyed and babbling softly like she knows something’s about to change. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. You open it slowly—and freeze.
Carlos stands there in a hoodie and sunglasses, like someone wouldn’t immediately recognize the British Grand Prix winner anywhere in Europe. But you’re not looking at him. Not at first. Because behind him, standing quietly, holding a small white stuffed bunny in one hand and a bag slung over his shoulder, is Charles.
Your breath catches. “Charles?”
He offers the smallest smile. “I brought her a gift. I hope that’s okay.”
You blink down at the stuffed animal. It’s the exact one she lost at the airport three weeks ago. The one she cried about for two days. You never told anyone that.
Carlos clears his throat. “I figured she could use some normal faces. And, well. I told Charles everything.”
You’re quiet for a moment. Your daughter wriggles in your arms when she sees Charles, reaching slightly, recognizing him even after weeks. Your eyes sting.
“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping aside, voice caught in your throat. “Come in.”
They do. Charles’s hand brushes lightly against your back as he walks past you — not a touch that demands anything. Just… reassurance. You glance at him, and he offers nothing but warmth.
“I made coffee,” you murmur to Carlos. “And there’s wine.”
Carlos sighs, dropping his bag and hugging you tight. “Wine. Definitely wine.”
And Charles? He stands quietly in front of you and your daughter, holding the stuffed bunny out to her like an offering.
“Hi,” he says softly. “Missed you.”
She takes the bunny with both hands and smiles. So do you.
—
The villa is quieter now. Carlos disappeared into the guest room twenty minutes ago, your daughter tucked against his chest, already half-asleep. You could hear him humming her lullabies in Spanish, the way your father used to for the both of you. You step out onto the terrace, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, glass of wine in hand. The ocean’s just a dark line in the distance, moonlight skipping over it like silver threads. The cicadas sing. The air smells like salt and jasmine.
Charles is already out there. Sitting on one of the lounge chairs, hair still damp from the quick shower he took, hoodie unzipped, legs stretched out. He looks over when you slide the door shut behind you.
“She’s out?” he asks.
You nod, sinking into the chair beside him. “Carlos has magic uncle powers.”
Charles smiles at that. “I believe it.”
Silence stretches for a few seconds — but it’s not uncomfortable. Just peaceful. Like the two of you are breathing in the same kind of relief.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” you say quietly.
“I didn’t plan to,” he replies. “But when I saw how angry Carlos was… and how badly he wanted to check on you… I just knew I couldn’t stay behind.”
You glance at him. “You raced today.”
He shrugs. “I’ve raced tired before.”
“But not like this.”
Charles looks at you now. Fully. Gently. “You matter more.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t flinch or look away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t mean it. He just says it plainly, like it’s always been true.
You swallow. “It’s been a lot. Everything... It doesn’t stop, Charles. The internet. The rumors. Max’s lawyers. The press trying to bait a reaction out of me—”
“You don’t owe anyone anything,” he says. “Least of all him.”
You rest your head back, closing your eyes. “I know. But I still feel like I’m holding my breath.”
He’s quiet for a moment. You hear the soft clink of his wine glass being set down.
Then, gently: “Can I tell you something?”
You open your eyes.
“I was scared to come,” Charles admits. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t know if I’d be crossing a line.”
You look at him.
“Charles…”
“I know you’re not ready for anything. And I’m not asking you to be. But I meant what I said — I care about you. I care about her. I didn’t come here because I want something. I came because I wanted to make sure you knew you’re not alone.”
Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You don’t say anything. Just reach out and place your hand over his on the armrest. It’s small. Barely anything. But his thumb brushes your knuckles, and that says everything. You sit there in silence, wrapped in the warmth of the night, the waves humming in the distance, the feeling of something steady blooming slowly between you.
—
yn_sainz
liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, franciscagomes and 7,777,000 others.
yn_sainz : thankful for all these angels and blessings i have in my life. more from me soon<3 promise you.
tagged : charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and iamrebeccad
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—
twitter!
f1gossipgirls : YN SAINZ POSTS FIRST PHOTO DUMP SINCE SPLIT — CHARLES SPOTTED WITH HER DAUGHTER 👀 popstar yn sainz just broke her silence with a photo dump from ibiza, including a very cozy shot of charles leclerc holding her baby (!!). caption? "thankful for all these angels and blessings i have in my life. more from me soon<3 promise you."
yeah. the internet is NOT okay rn.
—
view replies.
username00 : the fact that she said “angels” and included carlos, the baby, rebecca and CHARLES???? that’s a family post. that’s a FAMILY.
username88 : i just know max opened instagram, saw that pic, and walked straight into a wall
username000 : she really said “i'm healing, i’m glowing, and he’s helping raise the baby you forgot existed.” iconic behavior.
username15 : her dropping this after weeks of silence like she didn’t just emotionally flatten everyone??? girl i’m on the FLOOR.
username17 : charles is not the rebound. charles is the healing arc. charles is the redemption story. charles is the HOME.
—
The smell of coffee and fresh bread pulls you out of sleep. You pad into the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of Carlos’s oversized Ferrari tees and your daughter balanced lazily on your hip. Her hair’s a mess of curls and dreams, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes already scanning the room.
Charles is standing at the stove. In sweatpants. No shirt. Just barefoot, sleepy, and completely at home — flipping pancakes with one hand while balancing a bottle of milk against his side.
Carlos is at the table, cutting strawberries. He glances up and grins. “Good morning, madre superiora.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t make me throw something at you.”
Before he can fire back, another voice chimes in from behind the island.
“Don’t encourage her, Carlos.”
You blink as Rebecca, your brother’s longtime girlfriend, emerges holding two mugs of coffee — somehow already fully dressed and glowing like she’s just stepped off a Vogue shoot. “Hey, mama.”
You laugh, caught off guard. “You’re here?”
“She landed late last night,” Carlos says, stealing a strawberry. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Rebecca says, walking over to kiss your cheek. “And meet the little one. Finally.”
Your daughter reaches toward her without hesitation. Rebecca melts immediately.
“I made extra pancakes,” Charles says, glancing back at you. “Hope that’s okay.”
You smile sleepily, heart so full it aches. “More than okay.”
The five of you gather around the table — your daughter on Charles’s lap, sticky fingers reaching for fruit while he gently wipes her chin. Carlos buttering too much toast. Rebecca laughing at something dumb he says and stealing bites off his plate. There’s sunlight pouring through the windows, music playing softly in the background, plates passed around without question. It feels… right. Like this moment shouldn’t be rare. You sip your coffee and glance across the table. Charles is already looking at you. He doesn’t say anything. He just smiles, soft and quiet, like he’s exactly where he wants to be. And for the first time in weeks, you believe it.
—
It is quiet again. Rebecca and Carlos are in town picking up groceries. Your daughter’s asleep, finally settled after fighting her nap like a tiny warrior. The sky outside is streaked with pink and lavender, the last bits of sunlight trailing off over the sea. You’re on the floor of the living room, legs crossed, notebook open in your lap. Your guitar rests beside you, fingers tapping against the worn wood as you hum under your breath.
Charles sits on the couch behind you, legs stretched out, a book in his lap he hasn’t touched in half an hour. He’s been watching you. Not saying anything. Just listening. You scribble down another line, cross it out. Try again.
One thing about karma…
You pause. Sing it under your breath.
That bitch will find you.
You glance over your shoulder. “Too much?”
Charles shakes his head. “Not enough.”
You laugh — dry, soft, tired. “She’s… angry.”
“She should be.”
You look down at your lyrics again. The page is slowly filling. Not polished, not final, but raw. Real. Like something crawling out of your chest and finally, finally getting air.
Yeah, everyone's replaceable
But not me, though
You'll feel it deep down whenever you're alone
You're livin' a lie if you're sayin' I'm wrong
You stop, throat catching. Charles speaks before you can spiral.
“I think that line’s going to wreck people.”
“Good.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then you ask, quieter, “Do you think he’ll hear it?”
Charles nods. “He’ll feel it.”
You blink quickly, swallowing the tightness building behind your ribs. “It’s not about revenge.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to hurt him, I just…” Your fingers curl around your pen. “I want him to feel it. To sit with what he did. To know that he broke something that didn’t deserve to be broken.”
Charles sets the book aside and leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, voice low and steady.
“He’s going to hear this song one night when he’s alone. Maybe in the back of a car. Maybe in his apartment. And it’s going to cut deeper than anything you could ever say out loud.”
You look at him. Really look.
“And what if I’m never over it?” you whisper.
Charles doesn’t flinch. “Then I’ll sit with you through every moment of it. For as long as it takes.”
Your chest aches at how easily he says it. How much he means it. You glance back at your notebook. Your handwriting’s getting sloppier — more urgent, more alive.
Hope you’re at least real with yourself...Karma comes ‘round knockin’ at your doorShe’s comin’ to collect, ‘cause karma won’t forget…
The pen taps against the page, the rhythm of your rage and heartbreak and healing all stitched into one. And when you start humming again — soft, deliberate, full of power — Charles doesn’t say a word. He just stays with you. And somehow, that makes all the difference.
—
several weeks later...
yn_sainz
liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, yukitsunoda0511 and 11,000,000 others.
yn_sainz : that karma...she's a bitch you won't see coming. moral conscience is all yours my angels<3 love you all and remember to stay karmically intact. kisses xx
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yukitsunoda0511 : you've got that post divorce glow. i promise to stay karmically intact after this song (does shoving him off the track still count?) love you pooks
liked by yn_sainz
↳ yn_sainz : i feel like karma would forgive you, yukipie. love you my boyyyyy
liked by yukitsunoda0511
franciscagomes : you bodied this. physically. emotionally. spiritually.
liked by yn_sainz
alex_albon : lily has not stopped playing this since midnight...sigh...you ate mama
liked by yn_sainz and lilymhe
georgerussell63 : girl lets hold a "surviving max verstappen" seminar
liked by yn_sainz
↳ yn_sainz : we would both be there all damn day 💀
liked by georgerussell63
iamrebeccad : the most beautiful woman in the world. they will all regret crossing you, mi amor
liked by yn_sainz
charles_leclerc : 🌹🤍
liked by yn_sainz
carlossainz55 : so proud of you, mi vida<3
liked by yn_sainz
—
several weeks later...
f1gossipgirls (took me way too long to find a pic of max and charles where they look at least mildy tense...they are always so happy together and gay.)
10,00,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : If you were wondering why the paddock felt ten degrees hotter this weekend, allow us to recap the absolute chaos that unfolded: Pop sensation YN Sainz made her official return to the paddock for the first time since her Moral Conscience drop — and she did not come quietly. She was photographed arriving in head to toe black, sharp sunglasses, and holding hands with none other than Charles Leclerc. She spent most of the afternoon laughing and walking with Lily Muni He, while Carlos played the world’s most protective big brother in the background. Meanwhile…Rumors swirled post-race of a heated exchange between Charles and Max Verstappen, who reportedly crossed paths in the Red Bull hospitality with zero smiles and maximum tension. And if that wasn’t enough...Later that night, YN and Charles were caught sharing a kiss behind the Ferrari motorhome, completely oblivious to the cameras — or maybe not caring at all. YN Sainz is back. With a vengeance. And in couture.
—
The paddock is buzzing long before you arrive. People know.
They don’t say it — not out loud — but the tension is in the air like static. A few paddock photographers shift on their feet, ready. Social media managers hover by the entrance like lions with camera rolls open. And then the gates part. First, it's Charles. Red Ferrari polo, sunglasses, hair pushed back like he didn’t try but definitely did. Calm. Poised. Steady. Then you. All black. Silk blouse tucked into tailored trousers. Designer sunglasses. Statement earrings. A subtle red lip. Your heels click against the pavement like punctuation — not hurried, not performative. Just confident. Controlled.
Your fingers are laced with his. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You walk beside him like you’ve always belonged there. And maybe you have. Carlos is the first to greet you — waiting near the Ferrari hospitality, arms crossed, brow raised, he hugs you. Hard.
“Please tell me you didn’t wear black because you planned to kill someone,” he mutters in Spanish.
You smirk. “No promises.”
Charles chuckles beside you, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He can feel the eyes. The whispers. He doesn’t care about the noise — but he does care about you.
“I’m okay,” you murmur to him, as if reading his mind. “Let them look.”
And look they do. You pass Lily and Alex first — both of them giving you knowing smiles and whispered greetings. Then the photographers flash again. Then a Red Bull mechanic walks straight into a stack of tires because he’s too busy staring. But it isn’t until you cross into Red Bull territory that you feel it. The silence. Max is standing a few feet away — suit half-zipped, water bottle in hand. And for a second, everything slows. His gaze flicks to your hand in Charles’s. Then your outfit. Then your face.
He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his chin slightly. The same way he used to when he wanted control. Power. But today, you don’t flinch. You don’t even stop walking. Charles squeezes your hand. You squeeze back. And just like that, you disappear into the Ferrari garage — the door sliding shut behind you like a final, satisfying period at the end of a chapter long overdue.
—
You’re seated on the pit wall steps, reviewing Ferrari timing sheets and sipping a smoothie, when you hear his voice.
“Can we talk?”
You look up — and there he is. Max.
You don’t stand. You don’t invite him to sit. “I’m busy.”
He ignores it, stepping closer.
“I just want to understand what’s going on. With Charles. With her.”
Your chest tightens.
“You had months to understand what was going on,” you reply coolly. “Now it’s not your business anymore.”
“She’s my daughter,” he says sharply. “It’s always going to be my business.”
Your voice stays even. “You haven’t asked about her once since February. You haven’t seen her in person in almost five months.”
“I’ve been racing. Travelling.”
“So have I. And Charles. And Carlos. But we show up.”
He flinches. His jaw ticks. “You’re parading her around with Leclerc like he’s—”
“Like he’s what?” you snap, standing now. “Like he’s present? Like he’s kind? Like he knows her favorite bedtime song and how she takes her bottle when she’s teething?”
He goes quiet.
“I’m filing for full custody,” he says suddenly.
You blink.
“I’m not going to let you turn her against me.”
“Max,” you say, voice steel under silk, “no one has to turn her against you. She’ll grow up and see what she needs to. I won’t say a word. I don’t have to.”
He opens his mouth, but doesn’t get the chance to speak again. Because Charles is walking over from the Ferrari garage — already tense, already reading your face.
“Everything okay?” he asks, stepping between you and Max.
“She’s fine,” Max mutters. “For now.”
Charles doesn’t blink. “You should leave.”
Max scoffs. “You’re not her lawyer, Charles.”
“No,” he says quietly, “I’m the one she trusts.”
Max stares at him. But he backs off. For now.
—
The race is over. Max P2. Charles P3. But neither of them are thinking about champagne. Charles finds him in the post-race cool-down room — alone, toweling sweat off his face.
“You really want to go to court?” Charles says, calm but sharp.
Max doesn’t even look surprised. “It’s not about you.”
“No,” Charles agrees. “It’s about her. And the baby you haven’t bothered to see. You don’t want custody. You want control.”
Max’s mouth hardens. “You think you’re better than me?”
“No,” Charles says, stepping closer. “I know I am. Because I’d never walk away from someone I love and then try to drag her back just because she found better.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know she cried herself to sleep for months. I know she had to play popstar and mother and survivor all at once. And I know that every single day you chose to ignore that.”
Max swallows.
Charles leans in just enough. “If you try to hurt her again — legally or otherwise — I will fight. Not on the track. Not for a title. For her. And I never lose when I’m fighting for something real.”
And with that, he turns and walks away.
—
The house is still. Your daughter is asleep down the hall. Carlos and Rebecca are staying the night again, curled up in the guest room with old movies playing low. The windows are open, letting the sea breeze drift in, warm and weightless.
You’re in the kitchen, standing barefoot at the sink, rinsing out her bottle, letting the silence settle around you. Charles steps in quietly, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing one of your brother’s hoodies. His eyes find you instantly.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, but don’t look up. “I heard what you said to Max.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak right away.
“I wasn’t trying to cause more drama,” he murmurs. “I just… couldn’t let him talk to you like that. Not after everything.”
You turn slowly, finally facing him. “You didn’t cause anything.”
He leans back against the counter, watching you. Carefully. Gently.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say. “You didn’t owe me anything.”
Charles’s brow furrows. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you whisper.
“No, it’s not.” He steps forward. “I don’t owe you anything. But I love you. And that means I’ll protect you — not because I have to, but because I want to.”
The words hit you like soft thunder. Familiar, terrifying, safe.
“You love me?” you ask, voice barely there.
He nods. No hesitation.
You blink fast, heart racing. “I don’t know if I’m ready to say it back.”
“You don’t have to,” he says gently. “I’m not in a rush. I just need you to know where I stand.”
You let out a shaky breath, eyes burning.
“I felt… held today,” you say after a pause. “Not just protected. Seen. Heard. It’s been a long time since I felt that way.”
Charles steps even closer, hands finding your waist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Whether you’re sad or strong or angry or radiant or terrified. I’ll be there for all of it.”
Your hands move to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric of his hoodie like you need something to hold onto.
And then, softly — so quietly you’re not sure he hears it:
“I think I’m starting to love you too.”
He smiles. Not smug. Not surprised. Just warm. Infinite.
He leans down, forehead resting against yours. “We’ll take our time.”
And under the hush of night and the whisper of waves outside, you finally kiss him — slow, deep, full of everything you don’t yet have the words for. But he understands. He always does.
—
2 months later...
f1gossipgirls
8,100,009 others.
f1gossipgirls : Pop star YN Sainz and Max Verstappen faced off in court today over custody of their 1½-year-old daughter — and let’s just say the entrances alone told a story: YN arrived hand in hand with Charles Leclerc, who has not only been consistently present in the baby’s life for months (see: weekly IG story cameos and those now-iconic zoo day photos), but looked like he belonged beside her in every way. Calm. Solid. Unshakable. YN was also backed by her brother Carlos Sainz and his girlfriend Rebecca Donaldson, both of whom walked in arm-in-arm with her, radiating “try us” energy. Max Verstappen, meanwhile, arrived with Kelly Piquet — which... bold move? Sources say the courtroom tension was palpable, especially when Leclerc reportedly refused to acknowledge either of them inside. And the verdict? YN was granted full legal custody. Sources say Max is “furious,” but insiders insist there was never much of a case on his side. All we’re saying is… karma might wear Prada. And a Ferrari polo.
—
The courtroom is cold — painfully bright and unforgiving. You sit straight-backed in your chair, hands folded in your lap. Not shaking. Not hiding. You wore black again. Not for mourning — for armor. Your daughter is at home with your Mama and Papa, safe and smiling. She doesn’t know what today is. She just knows her mama kissed her four times before leaving and promised pancakes when she came back.
Charles is beside you. He hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked in. Carlos and Rebecca sit directly behind you, arms crossed, jaw tight. Carlos hasn’t blinked in fifteen minutes. He doesn’t need to testify. His presence says enough.
On the opposite side of the courtroom, Max sits with his lawyer.
Kelly’s behind him, sunglasses still on indoors. He doesn’t look at you. Not even once.
The judge glances over the papers in front of her.
“Miss Sainz, you’re requesting full legal custody. Sole decision-making rights.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” you answer, voice steady.
The opposing lawyer stands.
“Your Honor, Mr. Verstappen simply wants to be involved. He is willing to discuss joint custody arrangements, but he feels he’s being pushed out of his daughter’s life.”
You speak before your attorney can respond.
“With respect, Your Honor,” you say clearly, “he hasn’t seen his daughter in person since February. He missed her first steps. Her first full sentence. Her first fever. He didn’t ask about any of it.”
Max shifts but doesn’t look at you.
You go on. “I never once denied him access. Not through the breakup. Not through the media storm. I kept the door open. I waited. And he chose not to walk through it.”
Your voice wavers — just once — but Charles squeezes your hand, and you steady again.
“I’ve been her sole caregiver. I’ve built her routine. I know her allergies. I know her laugh. I know the exact song that calms her down when she’s scared. And none of that is because I locked anyone out. It’s because no one showed up.”
The room is silent. Even the judge stops writing.
“Why now?” she asks gently. “Why fight for her now?”
Max speaks, finally. “Because I’m her father.”
You turn to face him. “Then where were you when she cried for one?”
The judge takes a breath. Her decision is swift.
"Full legal custody awarded to Ms. Sainz. Supervised visitation may be discussed upon demonstration of consistency and parental responsibility."
Max doesn’t react. He just blinks. You thank the judge quietly. And when you turn to Charles, he pulls your hand to his lips — kisses your knuckles, reverent and proud. Carlos exhales behind you, finally. Like he hasn’t breathed all morning. And as you walk out — head high, shoulders strong, the woman the world tried to break — you don’t look back. You never have to again.
—
The house is quiet when you get home. The baby is asleep on the couch in her favorite position — arms splayed like a starfish, one sock missing, soft cartoon lullabies humming from the TV. Mama left a note on the kitchen counter: She’s been an angel. We’ll give you some space. You’ve got this. Love you.
You stand there for a moment, just staring at her. She looks so peaceful. So untouched by the weight of the day. She doesn’t know what happened in that courtroom — how close things came to unraveling. How hard you fought. How close you were to breaking. And maybe that’s the point. You fought so she’d never have to know.
Behind you, Charles sets your bag down quietly, then comes to stand beside you. He doesn’t say anything. He just brushes his hand against your back, warm and grounding. You finally exhale. And suddenly — your knees buckle. He catches you instantly.
You don’t sob. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s the kind of cry that lives in your chest for weeks. Quiet, exhausted, relieved. You curl into his hoodie, your hands gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering you to the floor.
“I didn’t realize how scared I was,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Until she said it. Until the judge actually said I could keep her safe.”
Charles wraps his arms around you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head. “You were never going to lose her.”
“I know,” you murmur. “But I kept thinking… what if he lies better than I tell the truth?”
“You didn’t have to lie,” he says softly. “You just had to show up. And you did. Every day. She’s yours. Always was.”
You look up at him, eyes red but full of something softer now. Something steadier.
“And you,” you say, voice low. “Thank you for—”
He stops you with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to thank me. Loving you both? That’s not something I do for you. That’s just… who I am now.”
The baby stirs softly on the couch, letting out a tiny squeak before rolling onto her side and settling again. You and Charles both turn to look at her.
“She looks like you when she sleeps,” he says with a crooked smile.
You sniff, laughing through it. “Terrifying.”
“Beautiful,” he corrects.
You lean into his chest again, heartbeat slowly settling. The sun is streaming through the windows. Outside, the world might still be loud. Messy. Cruel. But here — in this quiet corner of your life — it’s just you, your daughter, and the man who never once let go of your hand. And for the first time in forever, you feel completely safe.
—
The villa is quiet, bathed in golden lamplight. Your daughter is asleep in her room, dreaming in soft babbles, the monitor humming gently on the kitchen counter. Charles is sitting on the floor of the living room, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he sips tea and scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t notice you right away when you come in — carrying your laptop, a pair of headphones, and a nervous sort of calm in your chest.
You sit beside him and tuck your knees under you.
“I have something,” you say softly, “I want you to hear.”
He puts his phone down immediately, giving you his full attention. You hand him the headphones, then open the laptop and press play. He slides them on. You don’t watch the screen. You watch him. The intro is soft — strings, and then your voice, humming lightly. Not polished. Not perfect. But real. And the lyrics are the kind that make your throat close up even now.
When you smiled at me, something changed in my brain chemistry…A love felt infinitely, was my heart’s remedy…
Charles’s lashes lower as he listens, mouth parting slightly, hands clasped around the mug. You can see it in his face when the chorus hits.
Heaven on earth may fade away, but you and I are forever to stay in love…I don’t care about much anymore, it’s just us…
His lips curve — not into a smile, exactly. Something softer. Something felt. The kind of expression he only makes when he's looking at your daughter. Or you. The second verse plays and you look down, fingers knotting in your lap.
You wrote this album with no filter. You didn’t think about radio play or critics or charts. You just thought about them. The way your daughter clings to Charles when she’s sleepy. The way he runs his fingers through her hair while she babbles about nothing.
The way he looked at you that night in court when everything was falling and he stood steady anyway. When the track ends, Charles pulls the headphones off slowly, eyes glassy.
“You wrote that?” he says quietly.
You nod, biting your lip.
“For us?”
You smile. “It’s the first track. The whole album’s about you two.”
He sets the headphones down and cups your jaw gently, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth.
“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this,” he whispers.
“You showed up,” you say. “When no one else did. You didn’t try to save me — you just loved me until I remembered how to save myself.”
He kisses you then — slow and reverent. Like he knows you’re giving him your heart in more than just melody. And when he pulls back, his voice is rough and full.
“I want the world to hear that.”
“They will,” you say softly. “But I wanted you to be the first.”
The baby monitor crackles — a soft whimper, then silence. Charles leans forward, eyes still locked on yours.
“I can get her,” he offers.
But you shake your head and climb to your feet.
“She wants both of us.”
And as you both walk down the hallway — bare feet, tangled fingers, new music humming quietly from the laptop — you know now, more than ever: It’s just you. It’s just him. It’s just love. And it’s forever.
—
yn_sainz
liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 14,008,003 others.
yn_sainz : had to learn to rearrange my mind and be in peace <333
my new album for : you will be released on 10/16. the birthday of both my soulmates.
charles, thank you for loving me when i felt unlovable and loving my angel like she is your own.
you have been too good to us.
i love you both more than anything in this world.
my perfect little fam :)
tagged : charles_leclerc
—
user has limited the amount of comments on this post.
charles_leclerc : you both saved me right back. je t’aime, always.
liked by yn_sainz
alex_albon : crying, throwing up, screaming… and also requesting track 3 early
liked by yn_sainz
↳ yn_sainz : you and lily need to come over for early access listening party!!
liked by lilymhe and alex_albon
↳ lilymhe : ON MY WAYYYYYY
liked by yn_sainz
lando : both born on 10/16?? okay the universe shipped this.
liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc
lewishamilton : love like this is what makes the world feel soft again. congratulations, angel.
liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc
carlossainz55 : this post made me cry. happy now?
liked by yn_sainz and charles_leclerc
arthur_leclerc : you’re telling me i grew up with this man and he ends up the muse?? wild.
Summary: After a long flight, both Charles and Yn are starving. This is the perfect opportunity for Charles to try Yn’s ✨️ Girl Dinner ✨️
The apartment door closes with a soft click that sounds way louder than it should. Yn drops her bag on the floor without even aiming properly and leans her forehead against the door for a second.
“I am officially deceased,” she mumbles.
Charles laughs weakly as he kicks off his shoes. “You cannot be deceased. You promised me dinner for the rest of our lives.”
Yn turns her head slowly. “I did not specify the quality of said dinners.”
He walks past her and presses a kiss into her hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary. “I missed you even though we were sitting next to each other for ten hours.”
“That is called being obsessed,” she says fondly, pushing herself off the door and following him into the living room.
“Engaged,” he corrects. “It is different.”
They collapse onto the couch at the same time, limbs tangling automatically like they have done this a thousand times. Charles lets out a dramatic groan and stretches his legs out, head falling back.
“I am starving,” he says. “Like actually angry hungry.”
Yn hums, eyes half closed already. “Same.”
Silence settles for a few seconds. The kind that only happens when you are completely comfortable and completely exhausted. The city hums faintly outside. Charles turns his head to look at her, hair messy, face soft, engagement ring catching the light when she shifts.
He feels that familiar rush in his chest. The one that hits him at random moments. Grocery stores. Airports. When she laughs at something stupid. When she exists.
“You know,” he says slowly, “we could order takeout.”
Yn’s eyes snap open.
She gasps so loudly that he flinches.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You are so right.”
Charles smiles, already reaching for his phone. “Pizza or sushi. Or both. We had a long flight. We deserve it.”
She sits up abruptly and grabs his wrist. “No.”
He blinks. “No as in no sushi or no as in you want burgers.”
“No as in this,” she says, eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “This is the perfect opportunity.”
“For what,” he asks cautiously.
“For you to try my girl dinner.”
He stares at her. “Your what.”
“Girl dinner.”
“I know what a girl dinner is,” he says quickly. “I am online. I am not ancient.”
She squints at him. “You say that but I do not trust you.”
“I know it is like random things on a plate,” he continues. “Cheese. Olives. Crackers. A single grape.”
Yn laughs. “Okay that was rude but also accurate sometimes.”
“So what is the plan,” he asks. “Because I am imagining us eating pickles and vibes.”
She grabs his hand and pulls him up. “Come on. Kitchen. Now.”
“I am scared,” he says, letting himself be dragged anyway.
“You should be,” she replies cheerfully.
The kitchen light flicks on and suddenly she is awake again, like someone flipped a switch. She ties her hair up, moves around with purpose, opens drawers.
Charles leans against the counter watching her, smiling despite himself.
“I love you,” he says randomly.
She looks over her shoulder. “I know.”
He snorts. “Rude.”
“You love that I know,” she shoots back.
She reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a bag of potatoes, placing it dramatically into his hands.
“Your task,” she announces, “is to peel these.”
He looks down. “That is it.”
“For now.”
He grabs a peeler from the drawer. “I am already contributing to girl dinner.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Bonding experience.”
He starts peeling, exaggeratedly careful. “I feel like I am on a cooking show.”
“You are,” she says. “I am judging you.”
“Do I get points for enthusiasm.”
“Minus points for commentary.”
He grins and keeps going. “So what exactly are we making.”
“Fries,” she says, opening the pantry. “But better.”
“Better than fries,” he repeats. “Bold statement.”
She pulls out olive oil, garlic, dried herbs. “Trust me.”
He watches her mince garlic, the familiar comfort of watching her do something ordinary hitting him harder than any race win ever did.
“You know,” he says, “I was actually ready to fight you if this involved raw vegetables.”
She laughs. “I would never hurt you like that.”
The potatoes are peeled and she hands him a knife.
“Cut them into fries,” she says. “Not too thin. We want them soft inside.”
“Yes chef.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Yes chef,” he repeats immediately.
She rolls her eyes but smiles. While he cuts, she pours olive oil into a bowl, adds garlic, herbs, salt, pepper. She leans in to smell it and hums approvingly.
“Smell this,” she says, holding the bowl out.
He leans in and inhales. “Okay that is actually incredible.”
“See,” she says. “Have faith.”
He drops the potatoes into the bowl and she gestures for him to coat them. He uses his hands and she pretends not to notice when he licks oil off his fingers.
“Disgusting,” she says.
“You are the one who made it delicious,” he replies.
They spread the fries on a baking tray, slide it into the oven, and set a timer.
“Thirty minutes,” she says.
He exhales dramatically. “I might pass away.”
She points to the couch. “You can suffer there.”
Instead, he steps closer to her, hands already reaching for her waist like muscle memory. “Counter,” he says softly.
She raises an eyebrow. “You are demanding for someone who almost ordered pizza.”
He lifts her easily and sets her on the counter, stepping between her knees. She automatically wraps her legs around his hips, arms sliding around his neck.
“This is part of the recipe,” he says.
“Is it,” she asks.
“Yes. Very important step.”
He presses his forehead to hers, hands slipping under her shirt, warm against her skin. She sighs and leans into him.
They sway gently as music plays from his phone, something soft and familiar. He presses kisses along her jaw, her neck, not rushing, just existing with her.
“You okay,” he murmurs.
She nods. “Just tired.”
“Me too.”
They stay like that, whispering about nothing. About the flight. About how weird airport coffee tastes. About how he almost cried when he saw their engagement announcement on Instagram again.
“You did cry,” she says.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Only a little.”
She smiles and kisses him. Slow. Warm. Home.
The oven timer beeps and they both groan.
“Rude,” she says.
He pulls back reluctantly. “Duty calls.”
He helps her down and they pull the tray out together. The fries are golden, crispy at the edges.
She grabs the Parmesan and showers it over the fries like it is snow.
He watches skeptically. “That is a lot of cheese.”
“There is no such thing.”
She slides a fry toward him. “Moment of truth.”
He hesitates dramatically. “If this is bad, I am ordering sushi.”
She laughs. “Deal.”
He bites into it and freezes.
“Well,” she says, watching his face.
He chews slowly, eyes widening. “Okay.”
“Okay good or okay bad.”
“Okay why is this actually amazing.”
She beams. “Told you.”
“They are crispy,” he says. “And garlicky. And cheesy but not too much.”
“I am a culinary genius.”
He grabs another fry. “You are.”
They eat straight off the tray, leaning against the counter, bumping shoulders.
“I would like to formally apologize for doubting girl dinner,” he says.
“Apology accepted.”
He kisses her cheek, then her lips, quick and happy.
“This is my new favorite meal,” he adds.
She smiles softly. “Good. You are stuck with it forever.”
🏎️❣️ playboy!charles leclerc x sweetheart!poc! reader ❣️🏎️
smau + written ff
blind date, fluff, bit of angst
synopsis: his brothers think its about time he settles down. your friends think you deserve the love you put into the world. on a fated night, you two meet and your life forever changes.
WARNINGS: cussing, insecurity
a/n: for a gal who swears she's not a charles girlie i sure do write a lot of cl16 ffs...🫣
Liked by charlotte2304, arthur_leclerc, and 5k others
youknowyn mon vieil ami, Monaco (my old friend, Monaco)
view comments ⬇️
charlotte2304 mon ami, brunch on me this friday 🤭
↳ youknowyn you know I can never say no to you, char 😚
momuser Amusez-vous, soyez en sécurité (have fun, be safe)
↳ youknowyn Always, Maman 💖
youknowyn now whose gonna find me a Monaco hottie 🫣
↳ arthur_leclerc i MAY know someone...
↳ charlotte2304 i'm already regretting letting enzo rope me into introducing u to my friends thur 😥
↳ youknowyn no, no, lets hear him out char 🤭
Home, sweet home, is the only thing you can think as you walk into the apartment you'll be renting for the summer in Monte-Carlo.
It's been years since you've stayed more than a weekend in Monaco and as much as you hate to admit it, you miss it here. The small-town charm, the luxury, the food, but most of all the people. Your friends, both childhood and college, are all here. Your whole life was Monaco until you moved to Spain for work and your mom followed a year later.
Yet, life waits for no one. Your closest college friend, Charlotte, is already on your ass to get out there and have some fun. Whose gonna tell her you just arrived? And that not everyone is as lucky to have found the love of their life at 27 like she has?
Regardless of your insistence on enjoying single life, Charlotte knows that you'd rather be enjoying the beautiful summer months with an equally beautiful man.
Enter, Arthur Leclerc.
No, no. Not for you.
He's got someone he wants to set up with you. So...close enough?
When you ask Charlotte who he wants to set you up with, she says its a secret. You insist she tells you because what if this random man is a serial killer or even worse...a Wall Street man.
She declares that this will be your most successful date at which you, obviously, scoff.
Yet, here you are two weeks later at a bistro waiting for some stranger you hope is okay company.
When a handsome man around your height stands next to you, you peer over at him.
Hazel eyes, facial hair, a white pullover...seems this is the blind date.
"Hello? Are you...Charles?", you ask timidly.
"Picture?", he asks, already posing.
Your face contorts in confusion as Charles realizes his mistake. You're not a fan of his, you're his date.
"Oh- sorry! Yes, I'm Charles. And you are..Yn, oui?", he confirms.
You giggle before confirming your own name.
As you get escorted to your table, you ask him, "You used to getting asked to have your picture taken, non?"
"Very", he says with a look of sudden relief.
You don't know him or his career or his reputation. A heaven-sent companion.
"And you? A pretty woman like you must be complimented a lot", he smiles.
"Me? Oh, no! Not much, really", you say as you feel your ears warm up.
As the two of you decide what to order, he asks, "You don't know what I do? Weird of Arthur to not yap about me and tell you all the bad things", he jokes. You wonder if there's some underlying insecurity beneath his bashful words.
"No, not really. Charlotte, my friend, she set this up with him. She didn't want to give me any details about you to make it a "real" blind date", you answer while jokingly rolling your eyes.
As you two enjoyed the breezy summer night together, you grew closer. The man who was a stranger at the start of the night began to feel like more as the hours passed. Somehow, you two sat in the bistro until closing time when the waiter let you know the kitchen was closing.
When you checked your phone, you were shocked to find out that you'd spent the past four hours with Charles. It didn't feel like a minute had passed.
Charles was more fun than you could have ever imagined. He talked fondly of his childhood spent all around Europe with his two brothers. He never once made you feel uninteresting or like your much more local lifestyle was any less amazing. He asked you about yourself and how your life was going; something that most guys you'd gone out with hadn't fathomed to do.
At the end of the night, Charles insisted on giving you his hoodie since you'd shivered once just a second prior. He also said there was no way the night was ending so early and that he'd walk you back to your place.
For a second, you wondered if you should. He's a random man from Monaco and letting him see where you stay might not be the smartest of ideas.
But, Charles was a good person. You could tell.
And as you walked back to your place hand-in-hand, you felt his eyes on you. He was looking at you as if you're the only artwork in the museum that are his eyes.
The next morning, you awake with a smile on your face. It's been years since you had so much fun with a man.
Your daydreaming and smiling is suddenly interrupted by your doorbell ringing.
As you walk to the door, you wonder if you had some breakfast plans you'd completely forgotten about.
When you see a beautiful bouquet of flowers, you walk into the hallway to see if you can find the deliveryman. There's no way these are for you...right?
When you pick up the bouquet and bring it inside, you check for a note. You find one almost immediately.
"Ma belle, did you have as much fun as I did last night?
You looked beautiful, but your personality is what really captured me.
-C ᥫ᭡ "
At the realization of who it was from, your ears grew hot.
He had asked for your number last night after dinner and you were awaiting a text. Or a call. Anything, really.
youknowyn just posted a story!
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charlotte2304 YNNNNN!!! OH WE ARE SO GETTING BRUNCH TO TALK ABOUT THIS
↳ youknowyn 😆😆 whenever you want char
arthur_leclerc 😈🙏
↳ youknowyn what are you plotting you devious monster???
↳ arthur_leclerc that is NOT how u speak to cupid 😒
charles_leclerc ❤️
^❤️ by author
You spent the next week of your short time in Monaco wrapped up in every thing Charles Leclerc.
You'd never met a man that was so attentive and completely himself. It goes without saying that you liked him.
You even talked to your Maman about him. She loved the sound of him and wanted you to really give him a chance.
In the spirit of giving Charles a proper chance, you agreed to go on another date with him.
This time, on his yacht.
You'd told him that was far too much and that there was no need to be so extravagant. But, he insisted. He said you'd look gorgeous under the sunlight and the water was just perfect this time of year.
Suddenly, though, your best friend sent you a link to an Instagram post. Not unusual for her so you simply clicked on it thinking it was some silly brainrot.
You didn't expect it to be about the man you were currently seeing.
Or about his tattered romantic past.
f1gossipofficial
Liked by f1waggs, f1waggossip, and 2.5k others
f1gossipofficial CHARLES' NEW BOO?
Charles Leclerc's dating history is well documented. From Giada who he dated for four years to Charlotte whom he dated for three he then moved on to Alexandra who he also dated for three years.
Rumors have been going around that Charles ended things with Alexandra. Could it be over his new mystery girl? Or could she just be his next 3-4 year rebound?
Find out soon enough on @f1gossipofficial
view comments ⬇️
charlesgirlie ngl whoever that is does NOT fit his type at all 😬😬😬
charles44er going from alex to her is crazy
charleswdc26 downgrade of the century
wags4life no way shes a ferrari wag..they just let anyone in
charlesxlewis rumors say that she's the daughter of a well-known monaco businesswoman...charles is playing the long game rn
↳ leclerczzz sitting here acting like charles isnt a multimillionare 😭🙏🙏
maxie5wdcxz goddamn charles fans are crazy as hell
As your eyes weaved through the dozens of hate comments left on that gossip post, they also watered.
What had you done to deserve those comments?
All you'd done is like a boy. Why are they so willing to crucify you for being a woman finding love?
As you wiped the tears off your face, you looked at the three photos before yours.
Those girls are...stunning.
Perfect pictures of pure Monagesque beauties.
The type of girl Charles should have on his arm.
How is he interested in you now? This doesn't make sense.
As you spiral, you pace around your room.
You don't want to be played. This wouldn't be the first time so you are hellbent on making sure it isnt the next.
In a split second, you block Charles on all platforms and remove him as a follower.
It was nice while it lasted but not nice enough to get your heart broken.
You made a new plan for tomorrow. Get a taxi and go into a small French village to drown out your woes in pastries and red wine.
Those plans were unbenkownst to Charles, on the other hand.
He had set out on the dock an hour before the time you two had agreed on. He laid out a picnic blanket, towels, fresh fruit, and good champagne.
Yet, he quickly realized that you weren't showing up. For the first time in his life, Charles Leclerc had been stood up.
He texted you and called twice to no avail. He considered texting Charlotte too but decided against such a middle school decision.
Instead, he made a new plan. Show up to your place and hopefully you'd agree to go on a night walk. He knew you loved how Monaco looked at night, so this ought to be a success. Right?
Wrong.
When he showed up at the door of Apartment 1644 with a boquet in tow, he knocked thrice in quick sucession.
On the third knock, you opened the door and quickly moved to slam it in Charles' face.
Charles was apalled. First ,you ditch him, now you don't even want to see him? What'd he done wrong? How could he fix this, whatever it is?
"Yn, darling. What's going on?", he practically begs.
"I don't know why you're here, Charles. Didn't you get the hints? I don't want to see you anymore", you laid the facts out.
For a second, there was only silence and bewildermint on Charles' face.
"But, why? Did I do something? Say something?"
"Charles. This, whatever we have going on, is not going to work out. You know it. I know it. So, please just stop this act you're putting on and leave", you say roughly.
"What do you mean? Did someone say something to you?"
You looked away from his pleading eyes to collect yourself.
You liked him..so much. But self-preservation will always beat pursuing romance to you and this is that.
"Nobody had to say anything for me to know. I saw stuff online...why do you even pretend to be interested in me when I look nothing like them?", you ask him quietly.
In that moment, it all clicked.
You'd seen something online about his past relationships. Maybe about how they all looked alike. And you drew your own conclusions.
"Mon amour, please. You...you're beautiful. You're in a class of your own. Look", he says before pulling his phone out. His lockscreen was a picture of...you. It was a candid picture, one you hadn't noticed he was taking. You were laughing and had your whole face crinkled in joy. You looked awfully happy and insanely at peace.
"This is the woman I find most beautiful in the world. You don't look like them, you are right. But, that's a good thing. You look like you and that is why I like you so much."
"Just...don't break my heart, Cha", you said with a silent pleading in your eyes.
At this, he crossed your doorway and trapped you in a hug. Into your hair, he muttered, "I wouldn't dream of it."
cha_16 🔒
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cha_16 mine ❤️ @youknowyn
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youknowyn mon amour 🥹
↳ cha_16 ❤️❤️❤️
charlotte2304 i call maid of honor!!!!
↳ youknowyn its been THREE months char please have some decorum 😭😭
People on f1twt saying they don’t care if the drivers enjoy driving the cars, they just want to be entertained… I just don’t get that, a big part of what I like about sports is the passion. Passion for the the sport and an obsession with winning make for interesting athletes. For me sports is art, and what is art without passion?
